Champion
by Excited-Insomniac
Summary: Nita Linese is a Muggleborn witch for whom Hogwarts is a haven from her mother. This is an AU of Goblet of Fire in which my OC takes Cedric's place in the Triwizard Tournament. OC/Viktor Krum, mostly canon plot, Harry included. COMPLETE. Sequel currently being posted!
1. Prologue - Witch

_Chapter 1 – Prologue – Witch_

I leave Bigby a note, just like he asked, saying thanks and I'd see him next summer and have a good year. It is brief and stilted, as I'm not at all sure what to say. I'm honestly still a little puzzled as to why he wants me to do it in the first place.

The Alley always takes a while to come awake in the morning, so no one sees me drag my trunk from behind the parlour and through the pub. The air is crisp and chill on the walk between the pub and the station, and I use it to brace myself against the foreknowledge of a whole nine months of sharing a room with Rosemary and India and Alexandra and Kay again. We'd all be of-age this year. Only Alexandra and I had turned seventeen before the end of sixth year, along with all of the boys except Jon and Gideon. But all of us being of age only means that there will be more ridiculous pranks to avoid besides the odd pinched arse and rigged parcel.

I try not to think how strange it is that this is the last time I will walk through the barrier to the Platform. That the scarlet train will never again wait and whistle for me. I try not to think that I am going into my seventh year, that N.E.W.T.s are looming and that I have only very vague plans for the future. I'm going to apply to the Euro-Glyph School, but I eventually want to be able to help kids like me, and you need real money to do that, and I have exactly five Galleons, sixteen Sickles, and fifteen Knuts to my name.

But all that is for the future. For now, I board the train, one hand dragging my trunk, the other tucked into my hood to keep Edgar company. He sleeps more, now that he is older. Nearly eight is old for a ferret, and he is rickety. Though, Alexandra's cat is nearly thirty, she claims, and he doesn't look a day over five, so there's really no telling with magical pets. Edgar may well outlive me. I doubt it though. We were both Muggles first, he and I.

I choose an empty compartment and settle in. I expect no one to join me, and no one does. After six years of schooling together, my year-mates have learned to avoid me. I suppose it's partially my fault for being asocial and blunt, but it's not like they ever made much of an effort either. But anyway, the train ride passes uneventfully. I read for a while, and play with Edgar, and stare out the window absently. I wonder who the new Defense professor will be. Since it's my N.E.W.T. year, I want it to be someone good, not another fop like Lockheart. Memories blur my vision of the rushing countryside, pull me back in time, through the petty dramas and sincere struggles. I would never pretend my life has been anything extraordinary, but it's the only one I've got, and parts of it have been alright.

-o-

It was a hot Saturday in mid-July when the doorbell changed my life. I was eleven and one month old, sitting on top of the refrigerator, teaching myself the Cat's Cradle with Edgar slouching around my neck, asleep. The clock ticked on the oven, counting down the hours till I could safely go to bed.

The doorbell went and I looked up, nearly hitting my head on the ceiling, both surprised and anxious. It was Mum's day off, and she was sleeping. She hated being disturbed when she was sleeping, and I learned ages ago how much easier it was to stay out of her way on her day off. That was why I was on top of the fridge, actually. Mum was short, like me (though we looked totally different in every other regard), and far less nimble, particularly when she'd been drinking, which is nearly all the time. So the top of the fridge was my safe place, unlike the usual places like under the bed or something.

The bell went again and I scrambled down, first to the counter and then the floor, apologizing to Edgar as I jostled him awake. It wasn't that I really cared whether Mum got her nap in or not, but if she woke, she'd be cross, and I'd be the only one around when the person at the door left. And I would rather avoid that situation.

I opened the door, expecting Mr. Ronden from downstairs come to nag us over our leaky bath that was ruining his ceiling, he claimed. But it wasn't him, that was certain. It was a woman, for one thing, a very tall, stern woman with black hair in a tight bun, rectangular glasses, and a green dress. It wasn't actually a dress, but I didn't know what else to call her clothes.

"Yes?" I said.

"Is this the Linese residence?" she asked, peering down at me with badly concealed disdain.

I became aware of my grubby shirt and shorts, scabby knees, the dirt and mess behind me in the hall, and the ferret on my shoulder.

"Yea," I answered, bristling. "Who're you? Are you a lawyer? Did the landlord send you?" I couldn't remember if Mum paid rent last month.

"I am not a lawyer," the woman said haughtily. "My name is Professor McGonagall. If you would invite me in, I shall explain further."

I narrowed my eyes at her. "A professor? You mean like a doctor? Mum's fine. She's been following the steps and everything." Not true, of course, but if they took her away to sober up, they'd seriously put me in a home, not like when Mum just threatened.

"Young lady, I am not here about your mother. Are you…" She drew out a page of paper from her sleeve and examined it. "…Nita Linese?"

I scowled up at her. "What if I am?"

"Then I am here about you."

My stomach dropped. I pulled Edgar down off my shoulder and cradled him tight against my chest, even though it hurt. "You can't have him back! He wasn't happy at the school and he's mine now! Go away!"

As I was about to slam the door, Mum shouted from the other room. "_Nita!_ What in the name of god are you screaming about? I'm trying to sleep, you wretch! Don't make me come out there!" I cringed.

"Nothing, Mum, sorry," I called, hoping to defuse her temper before I got the hard end of it. "Just someone stupid at the door." I glared up at the professor woman, making it clear I blamed her for the situation. "Go back to sleep, I'm sorry."

"Actually," the professor called. "Might I come in? I need to discuss something about your daughter."

"About Nita?" The couch springs squealed as she got up. "What's she done now?"

I quickly stuffed Edgar under my shirt. Mum didn't know I had him. She wasn't very observant when she was drunk, which was nearly all the time, and I had hoped to keep him secret a trifle longer.

Like I said, Mum and I didn't resemble each other except in height (though I was only eleven, and hoped to get taller). I was blond while her hair was dark brown, mine fluffy and hers lank. Her eyes were a watery, bloodshot blue and mine dark hazel. She was thickset and I was skinny, but I was also more active than her, so that might have been about lifestyle rather than body type. And she regularly reeked of liquor.

The professor woman did not look impressed as Mum came around the corner. She was in her dressing gown and slippers, her hair was greasy and disheveled, and her eyes were puffy and red. But I knew that half-asleep and more than half hungover was when she is at her least scrupulous. I watched her warily as she came down the hall.

"Mrs. Linese, I am Profess—"

"I am not married," Mum snapped. The professor blinked. I tried to disappear into the wall. "I will not be called Missus by some dowdy old lesbo like you. Who the hell are you? What the hell do you want?"

The professor drew herself up, clearly incensed. "I am Professor Minerva—"

I didn't hear a lot of what followed due to Edgar squirming around in my shirt. I had to hug him awkwardly against me to hide the lump of him from Mum, and he had no problem demonstrating his displeasure with claws. I had tried explaining again and again that it really hurt my old burn when he did that, but he has this thing about enclosed spaces. Just then it took all my effort not to cry as his little nails dug into the old burn on my chest.

I looked up again in time to see Mum break under the professor lady's very steely stare, and she reluctantly invited her in. Professor McGonagall swept past me, and I closed the door and followed them into the sitting room. Mum resumed her spot on the sofa, and the professor took the only other seat in the room, the armchair Mum got from Gran's house when she died. I stood awkwardly at the end of the hall, peering in. Edgar had moved around to the small of my back, so I could hold my hands behind me to support him without looking suspicious.

"What's Nita done now?" Mum asked impatiently, reaching for a ciggie and lighter.

"This not about what she's done," the professor replied rather stiffly. "It's about what she _is_."

"A bloody nuisance," she muttered from behind her cupped hand. I scowled. She inhaled and sighed out smoke.

"Miss Linese, your daughter is a witch."

Silence followed this announcement.

Mom's hand shook as she tapped the ashes off her cig. "You're insane," she said, suddenly seeming entirely sober. "Nita isn't special. She's just a bastard brat her father left me saddled with eleven goddamned years ago."

"I assure you I am not insane," the professor woman replied coldly. "Incidentally, what was the name of her father?"

"God only knows." She took a deep drag of smoke. "Luke, I think, or Duke. More foreign-sounding, but he was a Brit alright. He was blonde, like her." She jerked a nod in my direction. I knew all this, of course. My father was her least favorite thing in the world, and so he was her most favorite thing to scream at me about. I seemed to have a lot in common with the bloke, despite never having met him, and Mum having practically no memory of him.

The professor woman raised her eyebrows. "A surname perhaps?"

"Well I don't know it, do I? We only ever did shack up once."

The professor woman pursed her lips, clearly displeased. She abruptly turned to me, eyes keen and hard. I started, not used to being the subject of such close attention. Mum's skepticism aside, I was starting to doubt the woman's sanity, even if she called herself a professor. But… maybe. Maybe, you know.

"Nita, I want you to think for a moment."

I shifted from foot to foot, looked to the side, back to her. Nodded.

"Have you ever done something, or made something happen that seemed impossible? Things the other children can't?"

Something in my chest expanded. "I learned French really fast, before they fired the teacher. And I can talk to animals. At the zoo last year, the chimp told me they took her baby away."

"She makes things up for attention," Mum declared angrily. "She let the damned creatures out that day, God knows how, and nearly got herself expelled."

The professor woman nodded slowly, not taking her eyes off my face. Excitement rose in me. "Is it real? Magic?" I asked eagerly. "Do you teach it? Is that what you're a professor of, magic? Is there a school for it? Will I go there? When does it start? Can I go now?" She raised the flat of her hand to me, and I fell quiet, bouncing on the balls of my feet.

"This is for you." Again she reached into her sleeve and brought out a large envelope made of thick, crisp, creamy paper. On the front in green was written my name and the address of our flat. I took it eagerly with one hand and turned it over. There was a wax blob with a picture in it holding it closed, a sort of old-fashiony one with four animals around a big H. I was excitedly considering how to open it with one hand when Mum interrupted from across the room.

"No!"

I jumped, cursing myself for an idiot: _never_ forget Mum, never never never! "Nita's dull and boring and _normal_! I named her after a character on telly, for God's sake! She's not going to any weirdo school. I won't have it. I won't _pay_ for it! If she goes, she's never allowed back here!" A clump of ashes fell off the end of her neglected cig, and she cursed furiously and swiped them off her leg to stop them from singeing her dressing gown.

Professor McGonagall was staring at Mum like she was witnessing someone grow a second nose. "Miss Linese, your daughter has already begun exhibiting magical abilities. Not sending her to Hogwarts is not only unfair to her, but dangerous to everyone, including yourself. She needs to learn to control her powers so that she doesn't accidentally hurt someone. And Hogwarts is one of the greatest magical schools in the world."

"I won't stand for it," Mum repeated angrily. "You take your—your letter or whatever back from her and get out of my house! She's not going and that's final!"

Professor McGonagall stood stiffly. "Very well. You have made yourself abundantly clear." She turned to me. "I'm afraid I need to take that from you." I didn't move, so she reached out and gently took the letter from my numb fingers. "Enjoy the rest of your day. Miss Linese, would you show me to the door?" I nodded, my mind beginning to rumble furiously. I didn't know about Professor McGonagall or Hogwarts till ten minutes ago, and magic was just make-believe, but in that time, it had become the single most important thing of my life. I wanted to go to Hogwarts and learn magic from Professor McGonagall. And I would. I didn't care what Mum said. I'd get there somehow. Something in me flared as we got near the door, and I turned around and put up my hand to make her stop. I turned, opened the door, said "Goodbye," loudly enough for Mum to hear, and closed it. Professor McGonagall looked bemused when I tiptoed into my room, just next to the front door, but followed me quietly. I kicked the door shut behind her and said "I'm going. I don't care what she says, I want that letter and I'm going." Sensing we were safe again, Edgar crawled out of my shirt and draped himself around my neck.

The Professor's face showed approval. "I had hoped you would say that." She pulled the letter from her sleeve again and handed it to me. Both hands free now, I ripped it open and devoured the words. A bloke named Dumbledore… what's a Mugwump?... accepted at Hogwarts!... await my owl? What?... DRAGON HIDE GLOVES?... where am I supposed to get all these books?... an owl OR a cat OR a toad…

"Can I bring my ferret instead?" I asked, looking up.

She smiled thinly. "I suppose an exception can be made."

"And… where do I get all these things? A wand? What's pewter? Or phials?"

In response, she pulled a big feather out of her sleeve (where was she keeping that stuff?) and took the second page from me. "If you come to this address at this date and time, I will be there to show new Muggle-born families around Diagon Alley. I will explain everything then." She handed the paper back and I read a few neat lines of writing, starting with 'The Leaky Cauldron' and ending with 'Sunday the 8th, 11 AM'. "It has been my pleasure, Miss Linese. I look forward to seeing you then."

I nodded, and went to open the door to show her out.

"Oh, that won't be necessary." I turned and looked at her in puzzlement. She smiled again and drew her skirts in close. As I watched, she took a step forward and vanished with a sound like a table leg breaking. My mouth fell open incredulously.

"Nita!" Mum shouted from the other room. "What the hell are you doing in there?"

"Nothing Mum," I called faintly, not taking my eyes off the spot of McGonagall's disappearance. "Just… dropped something."

I was _so_ learning how to do that.

-o-

Mum worked on the eighth, so it was easy to sneak some money and leave the flat, and take the Tube to Leicester Square. I got a little lost, but I finally got there just in time to see Professor McGonagall disappearing into a nondescript pub, trailed by about twenty nervous-looking adults, all with kids my age, so I joined at the end and tried not to get noticed.

Honestly, I shouldn't have worried. Once we got through the pub, everyone was too busy being flabbergasted by everything around us to pay the least attention to me. _I _was too busy being flabbergasted to pay any attention to me. Everywhere I looked, strange people and things, _magical_ people and things, and I wanted to see and hear all of it and two eyes and ears were not nearly enough.

Professor McGonagall led us at far too fast a pace up the length of the street, which she called Diagon Alley. She pointed out important landmarks, like the bank where the parents could switch Muggle (which were people who couldn't do magic) money for magical money, and the main book shop, and the wand shop, and the apothecary, whatever that was. Soon enough she bid everyone a good day and the families dispersed along the Alley, chattering and exclaiming over all the wonderful, incredible things they'd seen. I approached Professor McGonagall warily. She peered over her rectangle spectacles at me.

"Miss Linese. I'm pleased you could make it. I take it your mother…?"

"She has work," I said quickly, which was entirely true, but not quite properly contextualized.

She pursed her lips. "I see. Does she intend to return with you later for your school purchases? I assure you, pocket money won't cover what you need."

"I know, but, um, she says I can go and everything, but… she won't pay…. So I don't know…"

"I see… Well, for very rare cases, the school does have a fund to assist needy students in purchasing their books and robes. Unfortunately I did not bring such dispensation with me today as I was not sure whether anyone would need it, but I can withdraw the amount from Gringotts quite easily. This way."

She led me back up the Alley to the bank, and then inside, which we didn't do before with the other families. There were two sets of doors, one of bronze, one of silver, and I became more and more cowed with each step I took. I'd never been in such a swanky place before. It was like everything was made of gold and jewels. But that wasn't the thing that really caught me up: it was the bankers themselves. They were short, and weird, and grouchy looking—

"They're goblins," Professor McGonagall told me quietly. "Do try not to stare."

I quickly averted my eyes and gazed at everything besides the bankers—and there was a lot of that, so it wasn't hard—till we arrived at a long, tall counter with a row of goblins seated behind it, all engaged in important-looking money-related things.

"Good afternoon, Gornhuk," Professor McGonagall said cordially to the goblin we were in front of. I peeked around her nervously.

The goblin laid a huge magnifying glass down and fixed his attention on the tall woman. "Professor…" His voice sent shivers of delightful terror down my spine. "What can I do for you?"

"I need a short term loan on behalf of Hogwarts so that this new student can buy her supplies. Twenty Galleons should do."

I watched, fascinated, as the goblin selected a long sheet of paper from a stack near his neighbor's elbow and scribbled on it at some length. Eventually, he passed the page and the feather he wrote with across to Professor McGonagall. "Your signature." He sounded bored. She signed her name with a couple small flourishes and passed the page back up to the goblin. He perused it critically before grunting, "Very well," and tucking it away into a drawer I couldn't see. "Twenty Galleons," he continued in a lecturing tone. "To be paid back by Hogwarts by the end of the week with two Knuts interest." He produced a leather pouch from somewhere and opened another drawer I couldn't see. He lifted up a coin, golden and shining and practically as big as my head, and showed it to me. I didn't blink until it disappeared into the pouch. Nineteen more followed the first Galleon, and then he handed the pouch to Professor McGonagall who handed it down to me. It weighed a lot, but it was a good kind of weight: it meant I could do things, like buy all my school supplies and go to Hogwarts. I was beaming as Professor McGonagall led me back out into the Alley, where the chill fog wrapped me in its comforting Londony embrace.

"I'm afraid I must leave you now, Miss Linese," the professor said, and I craned back to look at her face. "I have to return to the school to make ready for the arrival of you and your classmates." I glowed at the idea. "I trust you have your letter and list of supplies? Good. Ask any shopkeeper for directions and they'll point you where you need to go. I look forward to seeing you in September." And she was gone in a swirl of emerald robes, not with the Vanishing Crack like before, but normally, striding off into the mist.

I spent the rest of the day shopping. I went to a place called Flourish and Blotts for second-hand books, Madam Malkin's for second-hand robes, the Trunk Depot for a second-hand trunk, and a few other places where the things couldn't be second-hand, like the apothecary, which turned out to be like a druggist for things to make potions with. It all sounded a bit like chemistry, but more fun because it had magic.

The last thing on my list, by unconscious design, was a wand. It was getting on in the afternoon by then, and I hoped finding a wand wouldn't take long. The peeling gold letters over the door read, _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C_., and a single slim wand lay on a purple velvet cushion in the display window. The air seemed to smell different as I dragged my new trunk inside: thicker, somehow, but cleaner at the same time, but somehow like everything I had ever smelled rolled into one.

"Hello?" I called nervously, and my voice seemed to echo away unnaturally fast. There was a rattle from deeper in the shop, and then an old man's head appeared, with hair like Einstein and eyes like weird white marbles that seemed to be too big for his face. I guessed he must be the Ollivander the shop was named after, or a very distant descendant of the one the shop was named after.

"Oh, hello, dear girl, hello!" he called, and the rest of his body followed his head out of what seemed to be a very tight space between some shelves. There were loads of shelves, actually, all jammed with tiny boxes that I assumed held wands. The sheer number dizzied me. "Here for your first wand, are we?" he said cheerfully, coming up to the rickety little desk. "No, ah, parents with you, eh?"

"They have work," I lied by omission. "I hope this won't take very long," I added, truthfully this time.

"Well, that remains to be seen," he said seriously. "It is the wand, after all, that chooses the wizard, not the other way around."

I was mystified and no clearer on the timeframe as he returned to the shelves and started pulling out boxes, seemingly at random. Meanwhile, a measuring tape leapt off the counter top (startling me badly) and started laying itself along various lengths of my body, getting more and more bizarre as it went along (why would it need to know how many times around my ankle it could go?)

"The thing about wands, dear girl, is that each one is unique and different just like each witch or wizard. There are different types of materials to make up the cores, for example, and different types of wood give wands very different personalities. In fact, my family has a little rhyme, if you'll indulge me: Rowan gossips, chestnut drones, ash is stubborn, hazel moans…"He went on at some length. All the while, he was pulling wands off the shelves, creating a bigger and bigger stack on the little desk. I wondered if Edgar was doing alright at home by himself. I didn't leave him alone very often, and never for such a long time. I hoped he wasn't peeing on everything.

"Well, let's just start with these, shall we?" He clapped his hands and rubbed them together eagerly. I stared at the pile of wand boxes, appalled. He wanted me to try all of these? But I had to be home soon! Leaving me no space to protest, he opened the first box with a grand gesture. "Here we are: apple wood and unicorn hair, eleven and a half inches, quite stiff. Give it a bit of a wave, see how you get on." He handed me the wand as if passing along the Royal Jewels. I took it gingerly and gave it a little twirl. A warm feeling spread through my hand, and a tiny little gold finch appeared from the tip and flew around the room, tweeting happily. Not for the first time that day, my jaw dropped. _I just did magic. _

Mr. Ollivander's mouth fell open too, actually. "What, on the very first one?" he exclaimed, sounding oddly offended. "Why, how—how very unusual! Dear girl, you do quite take the fun out of it. But you know, we really might try just a couple more, just to make sure it wasn't some fluke… I say, the very first one!"

He yanked my wand away—and it _was_ my wand, I knew that like I knew my name—and gave me another, claiming it to be ebony and dragon heart string, nine inches, pliant. Holding it gave me goose pimples and I shook my head decisively. He gave me another (fir and unicorn hair, thirteen and three quarter inches, whippy), and it made a shrill angry whistling sound for a second before he snatched it back away. The next one was mahogany and phoenix tail feather, eight and a third inches, quite stiff, and it made me actively nauseous, so I nearly threw it back to him. I was getting impatient anyway, and my tone wasn't quite respectful as I said, "Mr. Ollivander, I want my wand back now. It chose me, like you said. Those other ones are rubbish and I have to go."

He looked startled but not angry. "Well… yes, I suppose… yes, you must be right, dear girl, of course… it simply amazed me, is all, to have found a match so fast, yes… Well, that will be seven Galleons if you please, I'll just wrap this away for you so you're not tempted, eh?"

I paid (my little purse was nearly totally empty now, but I had books and robes and a trunk and potions things and a _wand_…) and left again through the brick wall and the pub, and took the Tube home and hid my trunk under my bed and ordered a take-out curry just in time for Mum to get home and scream at me for not doing any of the cleaning I was supposed to. But I didn't care. I was a witch and I was going to Hogwarts. All I had to do now was figure out how to get to King's Cross on the first of September…

-o-

It took a devil of a long time to walk to King's Cross. Our flat was deep in South London, so it was ages to lug my trunk all that distance, even taking the Tube part way. I thanked God that Edgar was a very well behaved ferret, but I still got a lot of odd looks from motorists and fellow Tube-riders with him poking his head out of the hood of my sweatshirt.

I got to the train station at twenty past ten, so I had plenty of time to look for the train. At Diagon Alley, Professor McGonagall told us to find Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and the Hogwarts Express would be there. Now, I had never been to King's Cross before, or any train station bigger than a Tube stop, but I was fairly sure that Platforms tended to come in whole numbers.

Commuters and travelers swirled around me, paying no mind to a lost little girl besides to toss the occasional curse if I got in the way. I edged out of the flow of traffic, eyeing around to see if anything looked suspiciously magical. There were Platform Nine and Platform Ten, perfectly normal and busy and non-magical. Tucking Edgar deeper into my hood, I prowled forward, intent on getting to the bottom of this. I had to, really: Professor McGonagall said the train left at eleven sharp, so I had to find it before then. I focused on the problem, searching out anyone who seemed out of place, or in a hurry, or just different or something. Too bad that the train station seemed full of that sort of person, particularly the hurrying sort. The big clock struck the half hour and my heart sped up. I absolutely had to find the Platform!

Propping my trunk on its end, I stuck my hand in my hood to pet Edgar, as I could feel him getting anxious, and leaned up against a square brick pillar. Which was suddenly not there anymore.

I pitched backwards, arms pinwheeling, legs staggering to try and keep my balance, which I failed to do and landed flat on my face. I must have flailed myself around a little too hard. I felt the impact all along my right cheek and eye socket, and I thought I'd bitten the inside of my mouth. But all of that fell out of my head when I managed to scramble to my feet and look around. A big, scarlet steam engine was idling at a platform I _knew_ wasn't there just a second ago. And there was a crowd of people next to it that I knew wasn't there a second ago either. They were definitely the sort of people I was looking for: weird magicky people with owls and trunks and pointy hats and clothes like I saw in Diagon Alley. And they were all talking excitedly and greeting each other and I felt very small and separate all of a sudden.

Edgar poked his head out to see what I'd done and chittered excitedly in my ear. I scratched his head and smiled nervously. Apparently I'd found Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

I felt a touch on my shoulder and spun around so fast I nearly fell over again. A blond man stood just behind me, with a girl a few years older than me behind him. She had bright pink hair and a quizzical expression. The man looked a little bemused. "Sorry to startle you," he said. "But is this your trunk?" I looked down and indeed it was.

"Thanks," I gabbled. "Sorry, just sort of, um, fell through the uh, wall, thanks." I grabbed the handle away from him and backed up nearly to the edge of the Platform. The man gave me a puzzled smile and he and his daughter moved down towards the crowd by the train.

"See?" I heard the pink-haired girl say. "_Her_ parents let her come alone, and she can't be more than twelve!"

I stood still and let my heart settle again. My breakfast Wheaties suddenly felt like a stone in my stomach, and my pulse was a rushing waterfall in my ears. A lot had happened that day: until I got there, to Platform Nine and Three Quarters, there was a chance I would go back home to Mum and go back to my usual school in a week and forget all about Hogwarts and magic and Professor McGonagall and gone right back to my life. The life that I didn't particularly like, but the one I knew how to deal with and live in… But falling through the brick wall onto the Platform changed my life and I knew that the only way to go was forward. Never back to Mum's flat or my old school or anything.

Spine stiffened by this resolve, I took hold of my trunk and dragged it along the platform towards the press of witches and wizards and the train, belching steam across the crowds. I didn't know why none of the other students had gotten on the train, so I stood awkwardly next to one of the doors and waited for something to happen, watching kids my age with their families and petting Edgar.

A great steam whistle went off as the clock tolled the hour, and nearly scared me out of my skin. All the students made a mad dash for the train, yelling cheery goodbyes and blowing kisses and being tossed last-minute parcels. I was pressed on ahead of a great herd of kids, all pushing and shoving and pulling one another until they finally dispersed into cabins on either side of the carriage. I stood, feeling dazed, until I felt the train start to move and realized I should find a seat.

There was an empty cabin near the end of the carriage, and I settled in. I spent most of the ride glued to the window, watching rapt as the city and countryside rushed past. I had never been out of the city before, and the wide-open spread of green fields mesmerized me. I let Edgar out of my sweatshirt and he explored happily. I was only disturbed twice during the whole day, once when a few older students poked their heads in wondering if I'd seen someone called Lola Cole, and the other time when an older woman in a cap and apron came by pushing a cart and asked if I wanted some candy. The Wheaties had long since disappeared from my stomach, and I was very hungry, but I was also hyper-aware of my finite purse and I reluctantly refused.

It got progressively darker outside and little lanterns came to life inside. Edgar crawled into my lap and went to sleep, and I started drowsing too till the train started slowing down and it occurred to me that maybe I should get my uniform on. Edgar protested sleepily as I shifted him to dig around in my trunk, which had gotten pretty jumbled over the adventures of the day. All the layers (tee shirt, jumper, and robes now) were heavy and uncomfortable on my burn, but I gritted my teeth about it.

It was full dark when we pulled into a new station and students poured out of the train in an excited burst. None of them seemed to be taking their things, so I hesitantly left my trunk in clear view on the floor. Of course, I kept Edgar with me. He curled around my neck as he usually did, but it was even more comforting now in this strange new place.

The new platform seemed to be at the edge of a little village, and the general current tended to the left. I made to follow it until I heard a big, gruff voice shouting "Firs' years! Firs' years this way, come on now, don't be shy!" I turned around and saw the most enormous man I had ever seen in my whole life. I was sure he was a giant. He was three times as tall as me and six times as wide, or maybe ten. He had a big ferocious beard and a stinky coat and a lantern on the end of a stick, which was mostly the only way I could see him. Most of the rest of the students had drained away by then, and perhaps forty of us new ones were left with this huge man.

"'Ere we go then!" he called, and turned and trundled off into the darkness, the opposite way the other students went. Exchanging many dubious glances, we followed.

The gigantic man led us along a narrow rocky path, sloping steeply downwards until we came to a dark little beach lined with rowboats, except they didn't have oars. "Climb on in, four to each boat!" the man called, and there was a fumbling rush as we all clambered in, some of us trying to push the boats into the water first, others just getting straight in. I wound up with three other kids, all boys, none of whom looked at me. Even though there were no oars, the boats slipped smoothly from the beach and drifted across the water. The boat with the big man was in front, and he was so huge there was only room for two students, who looked like they were about to be squeezed out of the boat altogether.

But I was looking at the sky. I'd lived in London my whole life, with the street lamps and car headlights and shop lights left on overnight. Who ever knew that buried under all that light, there were so terribly many stars? There must have been a million of them, all glittering and gleaming, different sizes and some were very slightly different colors and there was a great long cluster of them just there… Could that be the Milky Way? I always heard the stars are beautiful, but I never _knew_ it before that night.

All of a sudden, gasps and exclamations rose from the other boats, and I looked around, wondering what they all saw. It didn't take long to figure out: we were sailing towards a castle. A big, huge, proper castle, with towers and big buttresses and all the windows lit like in a fairy tale.

"Hogwarts…" one of the boys in my boat murmured. I found my mouth was hanging open again.

Time seemed suspended as we drifted ever closer. The castle sat on a big bluff above the lake we were on, so it seemed to rise higher and higher into the sky as we got closer until it eventually disappeared behind a big rock, and a little boathouse came into view. The boats unerringly took themselves into the structure and bumped up against the docks on either side.

"Alrigh'!" the man called. "Ev'ryone out!" We scrambled from the boats (Edgar digging his nails into my neck as our balance shifted), all knowing that we were nearly to the school. The big man led us out of the boathouse and along another rocky little trail, this time going uphill. The castle reappeared, rearing up in the sky like the most exciting monster ever. We got closer and closer, and soon we arrived at a stone-paved courtyard butting right up against the castle wall. There was another person waiting for us there, a long slim person who resolved into Professor McGonagall as we got closer.

"Thank you, Hagrid," she said as we gathered around her. "I'll take them from here."

"Very good, Purfessur," Hagrid rumbled. "Good luck, kids. I'll be seein' you lot 'round." And he lumbered back down the trail.

Professor McGonagall surveyed us gravely, and I swore her eye caught on me for a long second, before she turned smartly on her heel and went toward the doors into the castle. We didn't have to be told to follow. We were tense with energy and excitement as she led us through the doors and into Hogwarts itself.

Again, I lamented that I had only two eyes, as they weren't nearly enough to take everything in. The castle was lit by torches, there were big pictures on the walls that _moved_, and I could have sworn there was a staircase moving off through a distant archway…

A girl on my left screamed shrilly and the whole group turned to see what the matter was.

There was a ghost near the ceiling. A ghost that leered at us in a most disconcerting way. He had puffy, old fashioned pants on and lots of puffy hair. He was also upside down.

"_Oooohh!_" he squealed. "Ickle firsties! Having a good day so far? Lovely little train ride, a very picturesque sail across the lake? Well, just wait till you meet the trolls that live in the—"

"PEEVES!" Professor McGonagall shouted, and I jumped a little. I hadn't thought she was capable of such volume.

"They'll gobble you right up and still have room for—"

"I'll call the Baron!" Professor McGonagall threatened, and the ghost named Peeves actually looked scared for a moment.

"Well, you can't blame me for trying to warn them, Professor ma'am." His voice became wheedling. "It's only their best interests I have at my ghosty old heart—"

"Peeves," she said again, and he disappeared with a sound like a fart. The girl who screamed and a couple others were crying, but I was just impressed. Professor McGonagall earned my respect the second she stood up to Mum, but now she bossed ghosts around too. I couldn't wait to learn from her. I wanted to learn to boss ghosts around too.

She ignored the crying ones and addressed us as a group. "In a few moments, I am going to take you through the doors behind me and you will greet the rest of your classmates. You will be Sorted into one of four Houses. You will have classes with your House-mates, share a dormitory with them, and have your meals with them. For all intents and purposes, they will be your family." I roll my eyes. "In the most positive sense of the word," Professor McGonagall amended. I glanced up and saw she had fixed her gaze on me, the very faintest smile on her lips.

Professor McGonagall turned and led us through a pair of massive doors, and we were engulfed in a sea of floating candles and strange, curious faces. I found myself walking quietly, like I did when Mum was sleeping, and immediately started taking big confident steps instead. I may not have known nearly anything about this place, but I could still be brave about it. There were four big long tables stretching from the door to the raised stage at the end of the hall, where there was another table length-wise. That one was populated with adults, so I assumed they were teachers. In front of the table was a small three-legged stool, and on top of that was the mustiest, grubbiest, most patched and faded old hat I'd ever seen. Professor McGonagall stepped up next to it, and the cluster of us new students stayed down behind. Then, a big seam opened up near the hat's brim, and it _talked_! I thought my jaw literally hit the floor. I was too gobsmacked to hear a thing it said, and barely regained my composure when Professor McGonagall did that thing where she pulled a roll of paper out of her sleeve and started calling names. The first, a girl named Calliope Aaron, went to Slytherin, and there were cheers from the table on the far right where all the students wore green ties.

I was called up after a boy named Michael Lee who went to Hufflepuff. McGonagall looked more imposing there than she did in my flat, so I was especially careful to lift my chin to make it clear I wasn't scared as I took the stage. I took a seat on the three-legged stool, looking out over the eagerly upturned faces, hearing the cheery anticipation that filled the Hall: where would I go? McGonagall settled the Hat over my head and darkness obscured my vision.

"_Oh-ho, here's an interesting one," _a little voice muttered in my ear. "_Runaway, are you? Interesting. Already telling lies to McGonagall and Ollivander, that's always a good sign. Quite determined, I see, that's always nice. Goal-oriented, that and the lying make me think Slytherin. But a voracious learner, and a very strong mind once you learn how to use it, that's Ravenclaw. And that's a funny little language talent you have there, that'll certainly be fun. But you're here to prove a point, I see, so Hufflepuff would never do. You're here to learn, but not for learning's sake, so Ravenclaw is out after all. And your morals are a little too prickly for Slytherin, not to mention the Muggle-born bit. And you're pigheaded and stubborn, so it'll have to be…"_ The voice rang out strongly, echoing through the hall. "GRYFFINDOR!"

The Hat lifted off my head and I stood, grinning in spite of myself. A bunch of people were waving from the table on the far left, and I scampered over and joined them. A tall boy with red hair and freckles reached from way down the table to shake my hand, calling that his name was Charlie Weasley, he was a Prefect, and I should tell him if I needed anything. I wondered if the butterflies in my stomach meant I was in love. So many incredible things had happened recently, why not love?

There were nine new Gryffindors besides me, and I didn't remember any of their names except one called Wendell Abrams the sixth, because that was just so stuck up. I was the last to join the long table, cheered and applauded like all the others. We watched the rest of the Sorting with barely muted excitement, and listened to an old Gandalf-ish looking man who introduced himself as the Headmaster who told us to stay out of the Forbidden Forest, since apparently the name hadn't been enough in the past, and not to do magic in the corridors, and other random things, and then he clapped his hands and _food appeared on the platters in front of us._ I wasn't sure I wasn't hallucinating from hunger. And it looked _amazing_. I grabbed everything I could reach and started stuffing my face, not even looking at what I was eating.

Conversation began around me. All of us new Gryffindors were right at the end closest to the teacher's table, and talk naturally centered on introducing ourselves and making friends.

One of the boys spoke up first: "My name's Gideon Grown. I'm from Glasgow." He had neat dark-red hair and brown eyes.

"I'm Isaac Hanson," said the boy across from him. He was chubby, and his curly blonde hair and blue eyes made him look like a cherub. "My dad's a professor at Oxford." I took an immediate dislike to Isaac Hanson. Something about him put my hackles up.

"_My_ name is Wendell Abrams the _sixth_," said the boy I'd noticed earlier. "That means that there have been five Wendell Abramses before me, all the way back to my great-great-great-grandfather." His brown hair was carefully arranged, it seemed to me, and his glasses made him seem older than he was.

The girl right across from me spoke next. She had green eyes and wavy dark brown hair. "I'm Rosemary. My surname means 'perfect' in French. My dad says it's good that I turned out perfect or we would have to change it." Her teeth overlapped on the side.

"Your surname is Parfait?" I asked.

She looked over at me, startled and irritated. "No."

"That's French for perfect though."

"No it's not. My surname is Haine and it means perfect." She tossed her dark hair confidently.

I laughed. "No it doesn't! Haine means hated. Your ancestors must have got on the wrong side of someone important once. Your dad really told you it means perfect?"

Rosemary narrowed her eyes at me. "And your name is…?"

"Nita Linese," I said. "It doesn't mean anything, as far as I know."

She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, which made her look meaner but somehow prettier too. "So your name means 'nothing'? It's a good thing _you_ won't have to change it then."

The two girls on either side of her giggled, and the boys grinned. Recognizing that I had made a potentially serious error, I tried to backtrack, saying, "Names don't have anything to do with your personality or anything. It doesn't matter what they mean." Just then Edgar poked his head up over my shoulder from where he'd been lying in the hood of my robes like it was a hammock, and the other girls startled back, one of them letting out a little scream.

"A _rat!"_ one of them cried.

"He's not a rat," I protested. "He's a ferret and his name is Edgar."

Edgar clambered up to stand on my shoulder and hissed at them. He could tell they were being mean to me.

Rosemary looked at me and sneered. "Nothing Girl and her mutant rat. What a perfect pair."

I didn't make any friends after that because unfortunately Rosemary Haine became queen bee of our dormitory and might have literally forbidden anyone from talking to me, I never found out for sure. Not that I helped my case. In Muggle school, teachers regularly pulled me aside to deal with some 'problem' I'd created with another student. So even when one of my classmates did follow the urge to speak to me, I usually fumbled it. I didn't mind, somehow. From what I observed, none of them seemed like particularly wonderful people. Rosemary was stuck up and rude as her first impression had led me to believe, and she easily brought two of the other girls, Alexandra and India, into her orbit. The last girl, Kay, seemed to stay out of it for the most part, but hung out with them because I didn't seem cool enough to risk being shunned for my friendship. The boys were just stupid. They did occasionally interact with me, but usually to tease, so I learned to ignore them. That, or hexed them, even if it got me detentions. Whichever I felt like.

Nevertheless, my first year seemed to fly past. Potions would have been my favorite class except that it was taught by Snape, so my real favorite was Charms. I turned out to be rubbish at the class Professor McGonagall taught, and I was highly disappointed with myself. But honestly, who ever thought of literally turning something into something else just because you didn't like it? Some things can't be changed. Mum taught me that. But other than that, History of Magic was deadly dull, Herbology was cool when we worked with plants that wanted to kill us, Astronomy was boring even though the stars were pretty, and Defense Against the Dark Arts was just weird. Professor Barthing seemed to spend most of class time either sleeping at his desk or having animated, one-sided conversations in front of the class. Since I was only a first year and not allowed at Hogsmeade weekends, I only heard off the gossip mill that he got in a huge row with a Spanish chap at the Hog's Head near the end of the year and started a duel. Witnesses say the Spanish chap cast some kind of spell and Professor Barthing disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke and hasn't been seen since. I have to assume that got blown up in the retelling, but there's a part of me that really believes it.

I stayed at school over Christmas and Easter holidays. Having the castle more or less empty for those short weeks was wonderful. I got to wander and explore, and play with Edgar in my dorm room without the other girls telling me he was nasty. Some of them gave me sideways looks when they saw I wasn't packing at the end of term, but where was I to go? Not Mum's of course. I'd have to face the problem eventually, unless there turned out to be a Hogwarts summer school, but in the meantime I lived in the castle, learning magic. Friendlessness and mean or weird teachers aside, I was in heaven.

-o-

I stepped nervously into the pub. I'd only passed through twice: once with Professor McGonagall and the other Muggle-born families the previous summer, and the other time yesterday afternoon when I finally found my way back from King's Cross. Neither was a lengthy visit, but I didn't know anywhere else to go. Mum said I couldn't come home if I went to Hogwarts, and I had gone to Hogwarts. So I couldn't go home. Old friends from my Muggle school would ask where I went, and I couldn't tell them. Besides, would they even remember me? No, I had to find something in the magical world. Even if that meant sleeping in my trunk behind Bigby's Magical Tattoo Application Parlour. But I didn't want a pity-party: even with the cauldron, my trunk was actually pretty roomy inside, quite big enough for one skinny just-over-twelve-year-old and one chubby ferret, though it'd be better once I sold my books back to Flourish and Blotts like they said I could last summer.

But that still left the problem of eating.

"Are there any chores I can do?" I asked stridently over the noise of the customers coming in and getting settled. It seemed like half the Alley was there for lunch.

"Get out!" the man behind the bar shouted at me. His face looked like a walnut, it was so wrinkly and brown, and he looked like he was doing about ten things at once. "I don't need kids getting underfoot. What can you do that magic can't?"

All of a sudden, my stomach howled, advertising the fact that I hadn't eaten since yesterday's breakfast at Hogwarts. The man glanced at me shrewdly and I tightened my jaw to hold back tears. "Are there any chores I can do?"

He stared at me for a second and I stared back. "Ach…" he grunted gruffly. "There's dishes to do in back. Wash yourself first though. I'll not have a grubby dish girl."

Relief washed over me and I scampered past him towards the door he'd pointed out. "And be earlier tomorrow!"

I went back every day for the rest of the summer. I knew Tom, the barkeep and owner, was mainly letting me help because he felt sorry for me, and I tried not to feel resentful about that. At that point, I was fairly pitiable. But all it meant was that I'd have to work hard to pay him back someday.

The scariest thing that happened over the summer was when Bigby found me. I was using my afternoon to try to waterproof my trunk. The rain was late and hard, and I discovered that the seams weren't entirely tight enough to keep me dry. I found an old piece of tarp and tried just about everything to get it to stay: some bent old nails I found, some string I had, a few other things, but nothing worked.

I huddled under the thickening drizzle, cursing the failure of yet another attempt, when I heard someone clear their throat behind me. I spun around on my haunches and lost my balance, toppling sideways into a puddle. Edgar was perched on top of the trunk, and hissed at the man who startled me.

Not, I thought, that hissing at that man would do very much. He was short for a bloke, though obviously not nearly as short as me, with no hair and so many muscles I couldn't count them. But on every visible inch of his skin, there were tattoos. And they weren't normal ones either: they _moved_. I knew that it must be Mr. Bigby, the namesake of the tattoo shop I'd been sleeping behind for the past couple weeks. I froze, my bum still resting in the puddle. There weren't many people who would take kindly to finding a squatter behind their bins, and the man looked like no exception. In fact, he looked like the sort who'd kick me around and trash my stuff and go home to a warm supper without a second thought.

He crossed his arms.

I flinched.

"I've been wondering what kinda little thing might've been hiding back here," he said. His voice was a rumble I felt in my bones, and I remained as still as I could, not sure whether this was a prelude to the kicking or something else. "You've been here for seventeen days, arriving June twentieth. Day after the school gets out. Tell me."

I said nothing. Just stared.

"Can't go home? Stuck here?"

"Are you going to beat me up?"

He frowned down at me. "No."

I cautiously shifted onto my knees to get my bum out of the puddle. "Why not?"

"Why should I?"

"Because I've been sleeping behind your bins!" I cried, getting angry at the man's refusal to act normal.

We went back and forth stupidly like that for a while. It took Bigby a long time to convince me that far from wanting me tarred and feathered for squatting on his property, he actually wanted to help. Once I got that through my head, I cautiously accepted his offer to let me sleep the night in the back room of his shop. He told me it would be safe: no one was there during the night, and all the doors had magic-resistant locks. When I finally dragged my sodden trunk inside, glaring at him distrustfully the whole time, he showed me the light switch, told me not to touch anything, locked the door, and left. I looked around curiously once he was gone. It was a small room, the door and window behind me, a large mirror on the wall to the left, the rest of the wall covered in sketches and paintings. The right wall was made up of loads of shelves and cabinets full of papers and pens and brushes and paints. It looked like the art room at my Muggle school, only more organized and cleaner. Directly in front of me hung a purple velvet curtain in a doorframe, probably the division between the front of the shop and the studio itself. In the middle of the room and taking up most of the space was a large scrubbed wood table covered in paint and ink stains.

I wasn't able to fall asleep for a long time, not quite able to trust the situation. But finally, curled up in a corner behind my trunk, with Edgar around my neck like a slightly damp scarf (I was pretty soggy too, no denying it), I dozed off.

I woke early the next morning as the sun's rising rays poked at my eyes. It took a moment to remember where I was, but when I did I lurched to my feet (Edgar protesting as he was rudely jostled awake) and set about hauling my trunk outside behind the bins again. Whatever had compelled the man to let me sleep in his shop would surely have worn off by the time he got in, and it would be wise to have made myself scarce by then.

Having stowed my things, Edgar and I ventured out into the Alley. Only a few people were around, some sleepily putting up awnings, some just standing around talking. I wandered along for a while, at a bit of a loss for what to do. Tom at the Leaky Cauldron had told me to come back today to do the dishes again, and to be earlier, but he probably hadn't meant eight in the morning.

So I spent three hours industriously trekking up and down along the Alley, learning where each shop was in relation to the others, and finding all the little streets that split off the Alley-proper, like the one Bigby's parlour was on. Knockturn Alley looked a bit dodgy, so I steered clear of that, but otherwise is was an interesting couple of hours.

I got to the Leaky Cauldron at ten sharp, nervously waited to be acknowledged by Tom, and dashed into the kitchen, relieved, when he nodded to me. my work in the kitchen was straightforward: scrub charred pots and pans, all caked and slimy, until they were needed for cooking, and stay out of the way when the two cooks, Jacek and Arlo, got in an argument over something, which was often, but rarely serious. It was soothing, to know exactly what I had to do at any given moment.

The rest of the summer went surprisingly well. Bigby and I had another fight that evening when I went back to where I'd left my trunk, only to find that he had taken it inside and wasn't taking no for an answer about me sleeping indoors. I was incredibly pigheaded back then, just like the Hat said, and didn't like listening to advice, even if it was for my own good.

I eventually gave in, of course, and spent the rest of the nights of July and August curled up on his floor with a thick wool blanket, Edgar a snug little lump next to my neck. I always made sure I was gone by the time he came in, and that everything was tidy. And I never went in at night until he was leaving. The parlour was his place of business, after all, and I didn't want to be a burden. And my duties at the Leaky Cauldron gradually expanded too: by the time Bigby even found me, I was helping Mary, the day maid, clean rooms upstairs before beginning the lunch dishes. She had the same name as Mum, but I liked her anyway. She taught me where people were most likely to forget things, and sometimes let me keep the things we found, like a pair of shoes that had got kicked under a bed that I could grow into. When I got the letter from school telling me what supplies I needed, I spent the money only very reluctantly, getting the cheapest second-hand books, and robes it would take me years to grow into. But when the first of September rolled around, I was eager and ready to go.

Second year began inauspiciously. Alexandra's cat nearly ate Edgar the first night back, and Alexandra blamed me for the damage Edgar did to the nasty creature's face. The new Defense Professor was an Auror from the Ministry, a man named Gondil, and obviously had no idea how to handle kids and gave out detentions left and right. Fortunately, he was only allowed to take one year away from his job, so his position had a timer on it. It took me nearly a month to get the hang of the amount of homework the teachers expected of us as second-years, and by then I had missed the opportunity to sign up for any clubs. I had thought I might try the toad chorus that year just for fun, but it didn't work out.

It was late in October when I approached Professor McGonagall. I'd been thinking about this subject since summer when I'd heard some particularly strange-looking wizards talking in the pub, and it had taken me this long to work up the nerve to ask her about it. I didn't know if she was mad at me for doing so badly in her class last year, but I'd been keeping a low profile just in case.

"Miss Linese, stop skulking back there. What do you need?"

I started, and went forward without thinking about it. "I was wondering if there are any magical languages," I blurted out. McGonagall blinked at me. "I mean, in my old school, my Muggle school, they taught us French, except the teacher got caught with drugs I think and we didn't get a new one, but still—"

"I understand what you're asking," she interrupted, and I shut up. "Next year, you'll be able to sign up for supplementary classes, including Ancient Runes, but we do not offer any actual languages, no. Are you interested in them?"

"Well, I'm quite good at them is the thing. I sort of miss learning then."

She looked at me consideringly over her rectangle spectacles. "There are no particular languages reserved for wizards, to begin with. You will note we wizards of the Isles retain the use of the English tongue. French wizards speak French, Spanish wizards Spanish, et cetera."

My face must have fallen because she went on at once in a reassuring tone.

"But there are languages specific to the wizarding world, which Muggles know nothing about."

I looked up at her eagerly, and she smiled as much as I had ever seen her smile. It wasn't much, but anything from the stern Transfiguration Mistress was something.

"Goblins, for instance, have their own language. Merpeople as well, and I believe historically Veela had their own dialect, but that may have died out since they interbred with wizards."

"Is there anyone who can teach me any of those?" I asked eagerly. "I mean, except the Vee… Vee… the extinct one?"

"I know the Headmaster is fluent in Mermish, but I'm afraid he's far too busy to give out private lessons. However, Professor Flitwick knows Gobbledegook, the language of goblins. I know he can curse in it, at least. His grandfather was a goblin, you see. Would you like me to raise the subject with him?"

I nodded emphatically. "Oh yes please, ma'am, yes please, that would be very—"

"I understand, Miss Linese," she overrode me and I shut up again, this time fighting down a grin.

I got a note the next morning at breakfast, the first piece of mail I'd ever received. It didn't come from an owl, but fluttered down from the teacher's table to land gently on my plate. I seized it and had to read it three times before my mind caught up with my eyes:

_To Miss Linese,  
I am delighted in your interest in learning the language of my  
forefathers. While I am not fully fluent, I know enough to tutor  
at the beginning level. Since you have Charms today, please  
do see me after class and we will sort out a roster which is  
agreeable to us both. Sincerely,  
F. Flitwick_

I looked along the teacher's table till I spotted the little professor down on the other side of Dumbledore, to see he was watching me with a happy smile. I waved his note to show I got it, and he waved back. I finished my little breakfast with great gusto.

It took me nearly two months to become fluent in Gobbledegook. I didn't know if this unusually long time was due to it being a magical language or because Professor Flitwick himself wasn't fully fluent with it himself, but either way, by the end of the term, I knew it better than he did and our lessons had become merely a fun excuse to eat cupcakes in his office and come up with the silliest sentences we could. My lessons continued for the rest of the year, but after that he said he felt a little silly giving lessons to a student who knew so much more than him, even if they were lessons in name only. So we canceled them. He did demand, however, that I explain how I learned the language so fast, but the only thing I could say was that I had always been very quick with languages. Back when she still got sentimental rather than angry, Mum told me I was speaking full sentences at 2 years old, and it only took me two weeks to learn French when we got lessons in school. He didn't like that answer very much, but he did say that I could come by any time I had any problems even though I wasn't a Ravenclaw, or just if I wanted a cupcake.

-o-

I had never been to the Hospital Wing before and I was nervous as I stepped over the threshold. It was a crisp Saturday in April, and the long chamber did a good job of letting in the light with its many tall windows. I was still nervous though.

A fourth year Ravenclaw girl was leaving just as I arrived, smoke trailing dismally from her ears. Madam Pomfrey was clearing some small things off a table at the end of the ward. I heard her muttering "…year, miss Knight, every year in with hay fever…If you'd just learn to skip Herbology…" and I cleared my throat nervously. It was a small sound, like a mouse getting its tail stepped on. I scowled to myself. She looked up. "Yes?"

"Um…" I whispered. "My, um… my… um…"

"Speak up, child, gracious," she snapped, motioning me closer.

I paced about half the ward's length towards her and said, "My chest hurts."

"Are you having trouble breathing?" she asked swiftly.

I took an experimental breath and winced. "No, it feels on top of my ribs."

"Well, come here then and we'll take a look."

I shuffled the rest of the way forward and stood, hunched and embarrassed, and she waved her wand across my chest, looking focused.

"Nothing seems to be wrong, child. Come behind this curtain and take off your top, we'll see what we can see."

I hesitated, knowing what she would see and not at all sure I knew how to explain.

"Well, if you can't see if anything's wrong, I can just—"

"Nonsense, child, come here and we'll get to the bottom of this alright."

"Yes, ma'am."

She waved her wand and a set of hospital curtains drifted towards us till they were standing around me. "Tell me when you're ready," she instructed, and snapped the curtain closed. Very, very slowly, I took off my robe and the tee-shirt beneath.

"Okay," I called reluctantly. "You can come in."

I heard the curtain whisk aside and Madam Pomfrey tutting. "Child, I can hardly diagnose your chest by staring at your back."

Cringing at her sarcasm, I turned around, staring at the flagstones under her feet. I heard her gasp though. Even with my arms crossed protectively over my chest, my burn was obvious. It covered most of my chest, starting less than an inch below my collarbones and going down almost to my bellybutton. It was discolored and shiny and so ugly that I avoided mirrors, even when I had clothes on. And I was very careful about wearing clothes.

"Child, what is this!?" Madam Pomfrey snatched my arms away from my chest, the better to examine me.

"It's not new," I said quickly, though she could no-doubt tell that.

"Where did it come from?" she demanded, seizing her wand again and prodding me with it. A bluish mist materialized, which I hastily stepped away from.

"It's old," I told her quickly. "You can't heal it."

"I think I'll take my own council on what can and cannot be healed, young lady," she said sternly, but put her wand away. "How did that happen?"

I gulped. "I was eight. I was cooking, and I pulled a pan of hot grease on myself."

"What! And your parents didn't take you to St. Mungo's?"

"We're Muggles. She's a Muggle, that is. We did go to a hospital, but they couldn't do much."

"Even the simplest burn potion would have done wonders for this, and they send you home with a great nasty—" She pulled herself up short, probably thinking about my feelings or something. It wasn't like I hadn't been thinking the same things for four years. She looked down at me for a long moment. "Dear girl, I could heal that in ten seconds in any of a dozen ways if you wanted."

For a moment, I wanted it. For a moment, I saw myself free of the constant pull on my skin, the hunched shoulders caused by the taut old scar. I could stop being careful of mirrors. I could stop being afraid of what everyone would say if they ever saw it. I would be free. Maybe I could make friends. But…

"No, it has to stay there," I said finally.

She was as confused as I expected her to be: it's a great ugly burn. Who wouldn't want it gone?

I answered the unasked question: "I need it to remember."

She looked cranky and confused. "Then I really don't understand what you expect me to do."

"I mean… this pain is new. It's not the burn. What is it?"

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Where is it, precisely?"

"Sort of all over here," I said, pointing along the top of my chest.

Her face softened unexpectedly. "Dear girl, those are your breasts coming in."

"Oh." I didn't know how to feel about this news. Puberty was always a thing of the future, a word I knew, but not a concept I understood. Boys got tall and hairy, and girls got breasts and periods. But that wasn't going to happen to _me_, was it? I had so many other problems to deal with. And were breasts supposed to hurt so much? I shared this last question with the Matron, who chuckled and Summoned a pair of chairs for us.

"It's not uncommon for a girl to experience pain when her breasts begin budding, but I suspect your burn may be making it worse. Your skin needs to be able to stretch to accommodate the new tissue, and your skin isn't able to."

"Isn't there anything you can do?" I asked desperately. I couldn't keep feeling this way forever! And she was a magical doctor for God's sake!

"I may be able to add to the tissue's elasticity without getting rid of it altogether—though why you don't want it gone, I still do not understand. Do you want to try?"

I nodded eagerly, sitting up as straight as was comfortable and bracing myself for whatever was coming. Madam Pomfrey raised her wand and waved it in a gentle, complicated pattern over my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut as a weird tingling spread over my scarred skin, and the pain began to subside.

I blinked once the sensation faded. "It still hurts a little," I told her.

"Yes, it's likely to until your breasts fill in all the way. I've given your skin a little room to grow in, and if they stay small, it should be enough. But if it begins to hurt that way again, you can come back and we'll do it again."

"Yes ma'am," I said as I put my shirt back on.

"Now." She moved to put the curtain away, and I remembered that we were in the actual Hospital Wing, not our own private office. "Is there anything else you're wondering about? About how your body will change as you grow up, for instance?"

I hesitated. "What do I do when I start to… you know… bleed?"

I spent nearly an hour in the Hospital Wing with Madam Pomfrey, asking every question I could think of, all of which she answered kindly and truthfully. She even got me a cup of tea. When I went back to Gryffindor Tower, my chest hurt less, and I felt strangely competent about the future.

Once summer came around again, I took up where I had left off, with only a little trepidation as I reestablished the routine. Bigby grunted and ushered me inside the first night I was back, but Tom greeted me cheerfully and put me right back to work. He even let me do a little serving when it was particularly busy, and I split the tips people left with the other waitresses. I had the afternoons off, as before, so I found odd jobs to do around the Alley: running messages and errands, and shelving things at Flourish and Blotts and cleaning the owl pens at the post office and sweeping the floor at Florean Fortescue's in exchange for a banana and other things like that. I usually got a handful of Knuts in the bargain, or even a Sickle, and slowly accumulated a tiny fortune that I guarded like a dragon. I even tried Gringotts and nervously tried speaking Gobbledegook to one of the goblins behind the counter, and even though they were impressed by my proficiency in their language (at least, I was pretty sure they were impressed as opposed to outraged), they weren't interested in paying me to do anything, so I stuck to other things.

Bigby and I became more friendly too. I persisted in leaving the premises before he arrived, but from time to time he would stay late and make us supper on a little levitated tin plate with a magical flame beneath. He'd cook eggs and sausage and pour frothing beer into two big mugs and let me have one, which is where I learned how to drink properly. He would tell me about his customers sometimes, and I would tell what I had overheard from an exchanges in the pub, or out in the Alley, like what people were fighting or gossiping about, or if they were flirting.

I realized I was enjoying myself that summer. It was such a strange feeling that it took me almost a whole week to put words to it, and when I did I felt quite strange. A good kind of strange though.

Back at school for third year, Professor Thompson certainly made up for Professor Gondil. Defense became the favorite class around the castle almost instantly. Mainly, she didn't give lots of homework, which, since we were third years in supplemental classes, made her especially popular with my class. The boys also liked her because she was wicked gorgeous. Long dark hair, light blue eyes, curves like nothing they'd ever seen before. She promptly became everyone's crush. I liked her because she was a good teacher.

Ancient Runes was by far my favorite new class though. It was language-based, so I was automatically good at it, even though there was no spoken component. Care of Magical Creatures was interesting, but there was only so long a Bowtruckle could hold my attention. Divination turned out to be nonsense. Its saving grace was that it was hilarious, and I nearly laughed out loud when Professor Trelawney told me I was destined to die young and tragically. It was great fun to make up the most horrible predictions and interpretations possible, especially since Rosemary, Alexandra, and India all took it extremely seriously and adopted looks of horrible offense whenever I said something ridiculous.

Of course, I didn't make it a priority to go. And sometimes events, or people, conspired against me.

The castle was warm since it was early in the year, and everyone wore light clothes under their robes. Too bad we were on our way to stupid Divination instead of doing something interesting outside. But, up the five-hundred and twenty-eight stairs we went, mourning the loss of the beautiful day outside. I was seriously considering dropping Divination. I was already in Care of Magical Creatures and Ancient Runes, so I'd be taking enough classes even if I got rid of Trelawney and her stupid predictions about my death. Honestly, as if the worst evil the world had ever known had any interest in me. Trelawney had bats in her hat, just like Professor McGon—

A sharp pain in my bottom startled me out of my thoughts. I gave a high-pitched yelp and spun about. Gideon and Isaac were a couple steps below me, smothering giggles in their hands. I'd turned around in time to see Isaac retract the hand guilty of the pinch, so it was on him that I focused. They thought they were invincible. I proved them wrong. Isaac's eyes widened when he saw my expression, which meant he got a wonderfully clear view of my foot as it connected with his face. I felt a crunch through the thin sole of my shoe and he reeled back and tumbled down the stairs till he got to the closest landing.

I followed, ignoring the gasps and a couple screams that rose around me from my classmates and our Hufflepuff counterparts. Isaac had his hands clamped over his nose, which did nothing to prevent the blood from gushing out around his fingers, or stop me from grabbing his ear and dragging him further down the stairs.

"What are you doing!" Rosemary shrieked. "We have class! Where are you going! Nita, you monster!"

"I broke his nose," I called back. "We're going to the Hospital Wing."

Isaac flipped between crying and shouting at me the whole way down through the castle, but summoned the final vestige of self-control when we approached the Hospital Wing. But I beat him to the punch, so to speak, when Madam Pomfrey saw us.

"I broke his nose," I said succinctly, pushing Isaac forward.

He whimpered as his stumble jostled his nose, and glared at me hatefully. I raised my eyebrows at him.

Madam Pomfrey fixed his nose without comment (I filed the spell, '_episkey,_' away for later use), Vanished the goopy blood off his face and robes, and sent us on our way with only a slightly reproving look in my direction.

I knew Isaac wouldn't go back to class, so I followed him up a couple stories and along a couple corridors till we got to the Transfiguration room. He didn't so much as look at me the whole time, which I was fine with.

When we reached McGonagall's classroom, he didn't hesitate to barge right in, interrupting her class. I hung back outside.

"Professor McGonagall, Nita Linese just broke my—"

"MISTER HANSON!" McGonagall's voice rivaled a train whistle in volume and pitch. "HOW DARE YOU INTERRUPT MY CLASS IN SUCH A FASHION! DETENTION! GET OUT!"

Reeling, Isaac reappeared in the corridor. With enormous effort, I restrained my laughter long enough to discreetly poke my head around the doorframe and say, "Sorry, Professor, he's just a bit frazzled because I broke his nose just now. Very sorry for the disturbance. I'll be by later to arrange my detention."

The ringing laughter of the sixth year Slytherins and Ravenclaws followed us down the hall. That day went down as one of my favorite ever, especially since McGonagall excused me from detention once she learned why I'd broken his nose in the first place.

She did threaten to suspend my Hogsmeade visits if I got in any more trouble though, so I was careful to keep quiet for a time. I didn't want her to examine my permission form too carefully anyway. Lacking access to either parent or legal guardian, I got Mary to forge Mum's signature before I went to school. Unfortunately, I swiftly learned that visiting the village was really only fun if you were willing to spend money, which I wasn't. But it was nice to get out of the castle once in a while, and I didn't want to lose the privilege.

I got used to being ignored even more thoroughly by my classmates. Breaking Isaac's nose and the subsequent lack of punishment led the others to call me a pandering teacher's pet, which tied the bow on my position as social pariah. I got a lot done that way, actually. No one bothered me when I studied, so I got good marks in everything except Divination and Transfiguration, which persisted in being incomprehensible. I wondered if I'd be allowed to drop it after fifth year. And to everyone's sorrow, Professor Thompson announced after Easter holiday that she'd be leaving at the end of the year because she was pregnant.

Someone heard from a seventh year that there had been a new Defense professor for every year he'd been at Hogwarts, and that's how the rumor that the job was cursed got started. I heard Wendell in the common room one night telling Alexandra and Kay that there hadn't been a Defense teacher who lasted more than a year since before his father started Hogwarts. Since it was Wendell I didn't take it very seriously (and Alexandra and Kay clearly didn't either), but I was curious about who the new one would be for the 1991-92 school year.

**A/N**

**Welcome to my new fic! **

**I'll post chapters on Tuesdays. **

**Nita is my pride and joy so please be kind to her. **

**All characters (except for mine) are owned by JK Rowling, Warner Bros, etc.  
**

**E.I. signing out**


	2. Prologue - Potter

_Chapter 2 – Prologue – Potter_

I remember the summer after third year particularly clearly because it was the one where I accidentally set up Bigby and Madam Malkin. It was early in July and I was just leaving the pub after lunch when the clouds that had been threatening all day suddenly released a torrential downpour. I dashed up the Alley, hoping to get to Bigby's before I got too soaked.

Luck wasn't with me that day. The robes I'd bought so many sizes too big, hoping to grow into them, now worked against me and tangled my feet as I ran. I tumbled gracelessly to the cobblestones, and face-first into a puddle.

"Merlin's beard, are you alright?" someone shouted, and I felt a helpful grip on my arm as I struggled up from my knees.

"Hi Rachael," I said wiping mud off my face. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Sure, you look half-drowned. Come on in till it tapers off, it's bound to in a moment."

I accepted the offer, and followed Rachael through the driving rain for another ten yards till we got to Madam Malkin's Robes for all Occasions, where Rachael was the assistant.

"Here," she said, pulling a small towel from a peg behind the counter. She tossed it to me after running it over her own face and hair. I dried off gratefully as she put the package I hadn't noticed she was carrying away on a shelf.

"I'm back, Ma'am!" she called into the back room. "And I brought a refugee from the rain!"

I heard a tinkling clink of china from the back room, and then Madam Malkin herself appeared behind the counter, toting a pair of tea cups, wafting steam. Madam Malkin's wasn't a shop I went in that often specifically because Rachael worked there, so the Madam rarely needed for me to run errands. I delivered things to her shop occasionally, which is how I met Rachael. But the only time I'd ever met Madam Malkin herself was when I was shopping for first year and got my robes second-hand. Rachael had sold me my current set the previous summer.

She was a late-middle-aged lady with grey hair, and had the combination of shortness and fatness that is usually called 'stout', but she seemed to know how to dress to best suit her body because that wasn't my first impression of her.

"It's a good thing I made enough tea then," she said, giving one of the cups to Rachael and holding the other out to me. I took it after a moment of surprise.

"Thank you, Madam," I said, holding the delicate china up to my face to sniff its contents.

"Nothing of it, dear. What _is_ to be considered is that you're dressed up like a bedraggled bat in the middle of July. Do explain yourself, dear."

I looked down at myself. I suppose bat-like wouldn't be a bad descriptor, but it was a bit rude of her to point it out. I didn't tell her she looked like a scoop of strawberry ice cream, even though her pink dress definitely had that effect.

"It's just what I'm wearing," I said, trying not to sound offended. "I'll grow in."

Madam Malkin adopted a critical expression. "Certainly, in a year or three, if you're lucky. But your parents could buy you another set for the interim, couldn't they?"

Without thinking, I replied "I don't live with my parents, and even if I did they wouldn't want to pay." I immediately began berating myself: I'd gone three whole years without turning my life into a pity party, and I had intended to get much further.

"My apologies, child. I had no wish to be insensitive." A pause occurred in which none of us looked at each other. "If I may ask, who are you living with? A friend perhaps?"

Another truth popped out before I could stop it. "I'm staying with Mr. Bigby who runs the tattoo parlour."

Madam Malkins' eyebrows jumped up her forehead, and Rachael looked surprised too.

"Is he a relative? Or your guardian?" she asked.

"Er… not exactly, no."

"He must pay for your things? School supplies? Food?"

"He feeds me," I agreed hurriedly, thinking of the previous night's toast, beans, and beer.

Madam Malkin set her hands on her ample hips. "That seems hardly sufficient. Children need care and guidance, not tattoo artists. Here's what: you go right back there when this rain passes and tell him I want a word."

"That's not neces—"

"Necessary nothing, child, it's what's going to happen! Drink your tea!"

I dutifully gulped it down. True to Rachael's prediction, the storm blew away not twenty minutes later, and I was summarily shooed out into the Alley. I went slowly along to the little side alley, thinking if there was a way out of this. Madam Malkin's interest in me was abrupt and random. It was possible she would simply forget now that I was out of her sight. Perhaps I shouldn't even say anything. Yes, that seemed best. I would spend the afternoon with Edgar and consider about the coming school year.

Speaking of Edgar, actually, he was probably starving. I always brought some of my lunch back from the pub for him, and I was running nearly forty-five minutes late. And Edgar got grumpy when he wanted food…

I found him in his usual spot atop a bin under the eve of Bigby's parlour, dry but obviously unhappy. Petting him and feeding him calmed him down after a time, and I sat on a dryish cinder block and let my mind wander. My mind wandered so far it fell asleep, and I woke up some amount of time later to see Bigby standing over me with a little bit of parchment in his hand.

"Sorry, yes?" I said, pushing myself out of my slouch.

"Why is Madam Malkin of all people asking me 'if the girl has told me yet'?" he rumbled.

"Oh, er…" Apparently she hadn't forgotten. "That's right, she wants to talk to you. It's all a bit stupid though, so you should just forget—"

"Talk about what?" he asked.

I sighed. "Me. I accidentally told her that I'm staying with you, and she got all offended that you're not taking proper care of me—her words—so she thinks you need a lecture. She wanted you to go up there earlier, just after it stopped raining. But I fell asleep out here before I could tell you."

Bigby was frowning. "You're not anyone's business but your own."

"I know!" I reassured him hurriedly, gratified. "That's what I told her. She wouldn't listen. Maybe she'll pay attention to you since you're an adult, but…"

"Hm," he grunted. "I'll go. Watch the front." He went back inside, obviously expecting me to follow.

"What?" I squawked. "But I'm not nearly of age! What if someone comes in? What do I do? I don't know how to apply a tattoo!"

"I'll teach you later," he said gruffly. "No one'll come in. If they do, say I'll be back in an hour. It's easy."

And with that, he grabbed his jacket and went back out, leaving me perfectly alone. I stood like the Queen's Guard on review, arms glued straight to my sides, back so straight it stretched my burn uncomfortably. As he predicted, not a single customer came in, but Bigby himself nearly gave me a heart attack when I heard him come in the back door.

"How did it go?" I demanded, shoving the old purple velvet curtain aside to talk to him.

"Well," he said with characteristic brevity. "I'm going to tea on Saturday."

I took the afternoon off my regular rota of chores and errands the afternoon of Saturday so that he could go. He gave me the same instructions as last time, but I was still nervous. But poor Bigby wasn't too much better. Obviously, I was no expert on the man's personal life, but he never talked about a wife or girlfriend, he didn't wear a ring, and honestly, he just didn't seem the romantic type. So watching him prepare for his (for lack of a better word) 'date' with Madam Malkin was the funniest, most adorable thing I'd ever seen except when Edgar somehow got stuck in the canopy of my four-poster at school in first year and needed help down.

He stood in front of the large mirror, tilting his bowtie back and forth. I sat cross-legged on top of the large table, watching and smiling. Bigby wasn't an innately fancy man. Stocky and muscly with a shaved head and more tattoos that I could count, he was more suited to his usual leather jacket than the dress shirt and bowtie he had on.

"Good luck!" I called cheerily as he left.

He scowled over his shoulder. "Don't burn my place down, girl!"

I didn't, to my credit.

Five people came in while Bigby was gone: one old grizzly warlock with long grey hair and as many tattoos as Bigby himself, who laughed his head off when I told him where Bigby was; a young German couple seemed to think I was Bigby and I got to learn a few words of that language to explain otherwise; a middle-aged witch wanted a tattoo removed, which I wasn't sure was even possible, who threw an enormous fit when I refused to let her see the artist; that grizzly fellow came back just for a chat an hour and a half after he originally came in, and last came in a very handsome young wizard who explained that he wanted his girlfriend's name tattooed on him for their three year anniversary. Overall, it was a very interesting afternoon.

But I didn't run the shop very often. Bigby barely ever left it during work hours, and I had things to do anyway. I had developed a steady, if small income based on tips people left in the rooms I cleaned with Mary and the tables I bussed when it was really busy and chores I did for other shop keepers, and the usual notes I ran. It kept me busy, and the only other day that summer that was interrupted by anything unusual was at the very end of July.

I was in the kitchen of the Leaky Cauldron as usual when it all began, so I got most of it second-hand. I had never heard the name Harry Potter before, but I heard little else for the rest of the summer. Apparently he and Hagrid went through the pub on the way to Diagon Alley while I was in the back, and when I came out with table 3's order the whole room was buzzing.

"What's going on?" I asked Tom.

"Harry Potter just came through!" said a witch at the bar.

"I shook his hand!" said Dedalus Diggle.

"Oh," I said, trying to sound like I knew what they were talking about. "Good."

When I went back to Bigby's to give Edgar his lunch, I asked him about it.

"He's the Boy Who Lived," he said. "Beat You Know Who."

As if that helped.

And that night as I was coming back from helping clean the cages at Eeylop's Owl Emporium, three new Knuts jingling on my pocket, I ran into Professor Quirrell, coming down from the direction of Gringotts. I wasn't in Muggle Studies, so I didn't really know him, but I always took care to greet professors politely if I ran into them in the Alley.

So, "Hello, Professor," I called.

He leapt probably four feet in the air.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," I continued, trotting over.

He stared at me with a fearful expression. For such a warm evening, he certainly was bundled up. Add that to the new turban he was sporting and he must have been downright toasty. It wasn't my business though. And as Madam Malkin had been so kind to point out, I had no right to judge the fashion decisions of others. 'Bedraggled bat' indeed…

"Wh-wh-why, M-miss, uh…"

"Linese, sir."

"Of course, L-Linese, yes. Um. H-having a good holiday?"

"Quite a good one. And yourself?"

"Y-yes, um, v-very in-in-informative and and and I had better be going."

"Oh, alright. See you at school, sir."

He was already hurrying away. "Yes, yes, s-s-s-school!"

Anyway, I heard more about Harry Potter in the next month that I ever wanted to, and by the time September arrived, I was quite well-versed in his history. And in fact, "He's the Boy Who Lived and beat You-Know-Who" pretty much summed it up.

Fourth year was nearly boring despite the supposed excitement of having Potter at school. He went to Gryffindor, which was supposed to be a point of pride, I guess, but I thought right from the start he was more trouble than he was worth, even if we won the Quidditch Tournament and beat Slytherin for the House Cup for the first time in seven years or something ridiculous like that. But besides all that, it turned out Quirrell transferred into the Defense post, so we had a new Muggle Studies teacher instead. Not to mention, Snape, never a charming character, became absolutely demonic. One time when I had a cold and accidentally dripped snot in my cauldron, he docked ten points and gave me detention. And that wasn't even particularly bad. On the bright side, I did learn that wizards have a cure for the common cold that day, so all was not lost.

Of course, Quirrell didn't last the year, just as Barthing, Gondil, and Thompson hadn't. I suppose it only surprised me because he'd been a professor for several years before that, so he might have been exempt from the jinx or whatever. Apparently not. As far as I could tell from all the gossip flying around, he and Potter had had some kind of altercation in a basement somewhere and Quirrell got killed by an evil spirit or something. Like I said, not very clear. Usually by the time gossip filtered down to me, it was pretty convoluted. But whatever it was helped Potter and his friends gain the points to win the House Cup, so I wasn't complaining.

The first thing that happened when I went back to the Alley that summer was that Tom offered to put me on the payroll at the pub. Since I was underage we'd have to be under the table about it., but four Knuts a day for work I'd already been doing in exchange for lunch sounded like a fantastic deal to me.

It turned out to be a lucky windfall too, because the books for fifth year were exorbitant. Specifically the Defense books. Working on and off at Flourish and Blotts meant I knew they did a brisk trade in Lockheart's books, and I had flipped through a few of them myself. The things he had done were impressive, but he seemed just a little too pleased with himself for my taste. In any case, I couldn't imagine why we'd be needing the whole set.

I soon found out. A few days into August, Mr Bellamy asked me if I could be on hand to help run a large event at the shop, and I agreed even though it started at twelve-thirty and I'd have to leave the pub early.

So there I was behind one of the cash boxes that afternoon when Gilderoy Lockheart himself revealed to the world that he would be the new Defense teacher at school. By some happenstance Potter was there too, and Lockheart roped him into getting a picture for the _Prophet_. Miserable as the boy looked, I couldn't help but laugh a little.

All my humor disappeared when two blokes got in a fistfight afterwards (looked like the Weasley and Malfoy patriarchs from what I could see—nothing different from school then), since that meant that Mr Bellamy and I had to spend the entire afternoon tidying up, even with him using magic, and I was flat-out exhausted afterwards. I got Lockheart's books for half price, but even so they lightened my purse significantly.

Of course, when it rains it pours, so when I got back to Bigby's he told me we were both going to Madam Malkin's for supper. She and Bigby had continued and deepened their flirtation, if that was the right word, while I'd been at school, and when I went back to the Alley I was swiftly adopted into the routine: supper at Madam Malkin's apartment above her shop twice a week, on Sundays and Wednesdays, and Bigby went over alone for midday tea on one of the off days, while I watched the shop. Pleased as I was for them, I also thought it was a little funny. I associated dating with the stupider elements of my peer group, not older people I respected, like Bigby.

So off we went. I'd been along with him nearly ten times since coming back, but I still wasn't over feeling a little out of place. I wasn't related to either of them, and neither of them was responsible for me, as Bigby had said before their first meeting the previous year. But neither of them had listened when I brought the point up the first time I went, and I wasn't one to fight too hard against a free meal anyway.

I fidgeted with a thread hanging off my jumper as Bigby knocked on the door. Her apartment was arranged with a tiny cloakroom downstairs with a door into the back room of the shop and a set of steep, narrow steps to the upstairs, where she kept a cozy set of rooms consisting of a little bedroom, a loo, and a sitting room/kitchen with big windows overlooking the Alley.

"Hello, Marigold," Bigby called as the door swung inward of its own volition and we stepped inside.

He hung his jacket and cap on a hook by the door and I followed him up the stairs.

"Good evening, Randolph. Hello, Nita." Madam Malkin's and Bigby's given names had startled and amused me when I first heard them, but I was used to them by then. She was setting tea things out when we got to the top of the stairs, and we settled into the now-familiar routine. We would sit about on the squashy sofas drinking tea while supper finished cooking. The adults would discuss their days for a time, then briefly turn their joint attention on me and quiz me on my activities until we started supper. At least I had something interesting that day, with the fight at the bookshop. We'd eat in silence, then they would have brandy and I would have milk and be really bored until we left. I brought Edgar the first time, but Madam Malkin didn't approve of 'rodents', so he had to stay away after that. I liked it because it was an extra two reliable meals per week, but sometimes I felt I was there more as a chaperone. A really bored chaperone.

So even though it meant another nine months of barely talking to anyone, I was glad to get on the Hogwarts Express.

My enthusiasm didn't last long. As fifth years, we were subjected to the horror of Ordinary Wizarding Level exams, and the homework load was unreal. I spent an inordinate amount of time in the library and didn't even notice that I barely talked to anyone. Of course, living in a dorm with four girls meant I still got an earful of drama and gossip anyway. Rosemary was giving everyone the silent treatment because she hadn't made Prefect, especially Kay, who had. India and Isaac had tried dating briefly over the summer but broken up and she seemed to do nothing but cry about it. No one had any idea how to tell Alexandra that the back of her skirt kept getting stuck in her knickers, and there was a huge screaming fight when she got points deducted for walking around like that. I ignored all of it, and even went so far as to put a Silencing Charm around my bed so that I could sleep. Of course, that wasn't to say that I didn't have _any_ fun that year.

"Hey, Nita, you wanna go out with me?" Gideon asked.

I glanced up at him, then behind him to where a group of our dorm mates were peeking from behind a nearby bookcase. They giggled and shushed each other. I looked back to him. "Repeat that."

His grin faltered under my scrutiny. "I said wanna go out sometime? Are you deaf?"

"You're asking me out on a date."

"_Yes_," he snapped, frowning now.

"I accept," I said, closing my book and standing up.

His eyebrows scrunched down suspiciously. "You do?"

"Yes. Meet me at the gate at eleven for the next Hogsmeade visit. If you don't show up, you're a coward."

That nettled him. "I'm no coward!"

"See you next week then."

I glanced dismissively the hiding group as I left.

I took pains to ignore Gideon even more than usual for the rest of the week (and everyone else, but especially him). I knew the game. I'd seen him play it before. He wanted me to think he fancied me so that he could humiliate me when he revealed he didn't. Really, he ought to have known better than to play it on me. I'd lived with them for four and a half years. I'd ignored their best and worst attempts at riling me, and there was no reason this was any different, except they were taking a romantic approach this time.

So I met him at the arranged time and place, noting the group made up of Isaac, Rosemary, Jon, Alexandra and India a little distance off from where Gideon stood with his shoulders hunched over miserably. Apparently India and Isaac had reconciled their differences when faced with the possibility of seeing me humiliated. How nice to know I had such a uniting effect on my peers.

"Hello," I said coolly.

"Hey."

"It's a wonderful day for a date, isn't it?" I was needling, and was gratified to see him wince. Besides, it was the farthest thing from a nice day we'd seen all year. It was mid-October, and the weather had taken an abrupt turn from beautiful late autumn to disgusting early winter. The clouds were smeared and mangy, everything was colder than it had any right to be, and no one was dressed properly because they weren't expecting it.

Though it revolted me, I looped my arm through his as we walked down to the village. I knew he must have found it mortifying.

"Let's go to the Three Broomsticks," he said. It sounded like it hurt to speak to me.

"No," I countered firmly, and felt him stiffen in surprise. "Let's go to Madam Puddifoot's. This is a date, isn't it? We should do this properly." Behind us, I heard our entourage splutter with laughter.

I heard the grimace in his voice. "Of course."

The tea shop was nearly empty when we went in, and our followers weren't able to join us without being blatantly conspicuous. Other couples came in as we waited for our order and the space was nearly full of couples by the time the tea came. It was mostly Hogwarts students, which was all to the good as far as I was concerned.

Once we had steaming cups in front of us, Gideon began his game. He leaned forward across the table and spoke in a low voice: "Nita, I didn't want to say this in front of those others. They'd only laugh, and I'm being serious. I've fancied you for a long time. Do you like me too?"

I copied his movement and leaned towards him. I didn't speak in a low voice though: I made sure I was loud enough that the people at surrounding tables could hear me clearly. "I know the game you're playing, Gideon Grown. You didn't think I was stupid enough to fall for it, did you? You asked me out to make me look stupid, but listen to me when I say that whatever you do I can do ten times worse. _I broke Isaac's nose when I was thirteen, remember?_ I'm fifteen now. Don't do things you don't mean, and don't cross me." I dumped my tea over his head and left. No one bothered me for the rest of the year.

This proved fortunate because Lockheart was an absolute quack and I had to teach myself a lot of the Defense curriculum. He talked on for hours about his adventures, which I was becoming more and more convinced were totally made up, but never got in a single word about anything that would help us on the tests. Even so, I wasn't sure I was studying the right things and I was hit with a solid wall of test anxiety when April arrived.

I got to skip part of History of Magic to have my career advising session with Professor McGonagall, but the respite from worrying about the immediate future to worry about the distant one was only an hour long. "Professor Flitwick has told me how amazed he was with your proficiency with Gobbledegook, Linese," my Head of House said matter-of-factly. "Do you think pursuing some sort of career in languages sounds interesting?"

I blinked. Was that an option? "I'm not sure how I would, ma'am," I said dubiously.

"Have you not heard of the Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages?" She cocked her head. "I would have been certain Fliius had mentioned it to you. Well, nevertheless. They have a campus down in London, not far from the Leaky Cauldron. They teach magical and Muggle languages, and even dead languages, I believe. If this is something that interests you, I would be happy to write a letter of recommendation, and Filius would be as well, I'm certain. You would apply in your seventh year."

I thought it sounded amazing. Even though I had to go back to OWL prep afterwards, I stayed excited about the prospect of the Euro-Glyph School.

But OWLs weren't the only thing to be worried about that year. People were getting Petrified. It started with the Creavy boy in November—well, technically it was Mrs. Norris on Halloween. But no one really got scared till Creavy happened. As a Muggle-born I got a little paranoid and took to carrying Edgar around with me, subscribing to Professor Kettleburn's theory of animals having extra senses for danger. I didn't get Petrified, so either it worked or I was lucky. And OWLs didn't even kill me, so that was a nice surprise. I'm sure we all failed Defense thanks to Lockheart, but at least I didn't have to test for Divination. Professor McGonagall let me drop it before fourth year. So after getting through all that, it was a sad sort of irony when the Headmaster canceled finals _after_ OWLs had already happened. And of course, Lockheart wasn't coming back. Long story short, he lost all his memory in the dungeon, doing something about the Slytherin monster with Potter and the two youngest Weasleys. So I did even worse on that OWL than I might have.

I was looking forward to a calmer summer than the school year, and that's what I got for the first half. But then Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban. Despite not knowing about either Back or the prison before, I knew it was a big deal, just like when Potter reappeared. I asked Bigby about him that night over our canned soup and beer, and he became unexpectedly sad. "Did a lot of work on that kid. Shame how it turned out. Never seemed the type." It took me a few moments to mentally unwrap this: Bigby had given Black a lot of tattoos before he got sent to prison, whatever Black did had surprised and saddened him, but it seemed irrevocable.

The Alley buzzed like a kicked bees nest the next day and I managed to nick a _Prophet_ someone left at the pub and read about the whole thing. It was certainly more comprehensive that Bigby's brief phrases, but I was still in the dark about what Black was doing in Azkaban in the first place. I mean, 'mass murderer' sounds fairly terrible, but there wasn't a single word about his trial or the actual crime or anything: only about how impossible it is to break out of Azkaban and that he's the most evil thing ever and we should all watch out for him. Maybe wizarding reporters were just less nosy than Muggle ones. One thing I read was that the guards of Azkaban would be conducting random searches of popular wizarding areas like Hogsmeade and the Alley in an attempt to flush him out. I tried to keep an eye open at the pub, since that was the only entrance to the Alley that would easily accommodate a bunch of people, but two days went past and no one remotely guard-ish appeared. On top of that (or very well because of it, I suppose) business slacked off considerably. Mary and I barely had any rooms to clean and my dishes duty went down from unmanageable to merely unreasonable.

So that Friday found me leaving early for the first time, half a loaf of bread and an apple in my pocket to share with Edgar. It was a warm, misty day and I trotted along briskly, looking forward to an afternoon of errand-running. After going-on five summers of industriousness, shop keepers were used to reserving chores and things for me to do when I came around, and I had even made some friends, though none my own age.

All of a sudden, the mist around me turned chilly and dank, and my good mood disappeared as if it had never existed. Around me, the few other people out in the Alley looked around fearfully and hurried on to their destinations. I took their example and quickened my steps towards Bigby's, but I didn't seem to be fast enough. Ahead of me, coming over the roofs of Gambol and Japes and the Rosa Lee were four of the scariest… things I had ever seen in my life. They were tall and swathed in long black cloaks that covered their faces and bodies, and they seemed to emanate cold. They floated to the ground and split into two pairs. One went north and the other came south, towards me. They didn't seem to move on feet, more like they had wheels and were rolling down the Alley. As the two cloaked figures approached, the cold and feeling of depression got worse and worse and I began to feel dizzy and nauseous as they came abreast of me. I cowered in a doorway, I'm ashamed to admit. It was the only time I ever cowered from anything, but I couldn't seem to help it. And just as they passed me, my old burn seemed to… crackle somehow, like how it used to feel when it was new. The feeling slowly abated as they passed me, and I breathed deeply to settle my stomach before sprinting the rest of the way to Bigby's.

I didn't go out for the rest of the day. The cold the creatures had brought with them seemed to settle into my bones, and I shivered through the night and barely slept. Bigby said they were called Dementors. Knowing they were the guards of Azkaban made me feel really bad for the prisoners. No wonder Sirius Black escaped when he had the chance.

But after a solid night's sleep and some solid food in my belly, I felt much better and returned to all the varied activities that made up my 'work'. One thing I noticed running back and forth and shimmying through shortcuts and over walls as much as I did was that the Alley acquired a new resident without anyone noticing. After all, if there was one thing for certain about the Alley, it was that it didn't notice strays. This one was an enormous, mangy black dog, flea-bitten and so skinny I could count its ribs. The first time I saw it, I nearly stomped on it by accident because over the wall between the post office and the book binder was the fastest way to get to the back door of Second Hand Broomsticks, and anyway, it was lying against the other side of the wall and when I jumped over I almost landed on it. It gave an offended yelp and bounded away, even though I literally fell over and did a summersault to avoid hurting it.

The second time was three days later when I was leaving the pub. I turned onto Bigby's alley (that wasn't its real name, but there was no signpost, so that's what I called it) and saw it scrounging through a bin. I felt the chicken breast in my jacket pocket as a warm lump against my hip. The dog looked up and started growing when he saw me (he was very obviously a male, I saw now), so I put my hands on my hips. "It wasn't my fault you were lying there to get landed on," I snapped, and he stopped growling and sat down, doing an expression that looked very much like raised eyebrows.

We stared at each other for a moment. I decided I could go a day without lunch and pulled the chicken breast out of my pocket. He literally started drooling at the sight. I laughed a little and tore a piece off for Edgar before throwing it to him. It was gone in a bite and a half, echoing crunch of bones and thoroughly licked chops all the evidence it had ever existed.

"Don't think you can follow me around now," I told him sternly, and he grinned and sauntered off. I had never seen a dog saunter before, but that's definitely what he did.

The last time was the morning I got my OWL results. I think it was him, anyway. All I saw was a glimpse of a brushy black tail waving behind a corner for a second before it disappeared, but I'm pretty sure it was him. I never saw him again after that and the arrival of my exam marks an hour later drove him right out of my head. Bigby handed it to me out of the stack of his usual correspondence and I ripped it open eagerly.

**Ordinary Wizarding Level Results  
**_Pass Grades _ \- - - - - - - - _Fail Grades_

Outstanding (O) - - - - - - - Poor (P)  
Exceeds Expectations (E) - - - - - - - - Dreadful (D)  
Acceptable (A) - - - - - - - - - Troll (T)

_**Nita Linese has achieved:  
**_Astronomy - A  
Care of Magical Creatures - E  
Charms - O  
Defense Against the Dark Arts - A  
Ancient Runes - O  
Herbology - E  
History of Magic - A  
Potions - O  
Transfiguration - A

"Three Os!" I crowed, waving the letter over my head and dancing around the big table. "Stupid Lockheart! I could have had an E in Defense, or even an O. Three Os though! And I didn't fail anything! HA!"

Bigby helped me get properly sloshed that night in celebration. It turned out that Firewhiskey was a lot stronger than beer, and I ended up vomiting twice in the back alley, but it was still a lot of fun.

Since sixth year was the breather between OWLs and NEWTs, I hoped for a small reprieve, but my hopes were immediately dashed: when we were most of the way to Hogsmeade from London, the train stopped and Dementors searched the train for Black.

I had a compartment to myself, as usual, and the lanterns had just flickered on when we slowly came to a halt and everything became dark and freezing cold. Edgar trembled in my hood, whimpering worriedly by my ear. I could hear other students banging and bumping around in other compartments, but I stayed as still as possible, hoping that they would pass me by and spare me the horrible symptoms from the Alley. But however they sensed people, they did not miss me. My compartment door rattled open, and there stood one of the tall, cloaked figures, and the aching, bone-piercing cold that surrounded it.

It made an abrupt noise, like it was gasping to catch its breath, and my burned chest _seared_ with pain, I could hear myself screaming, and a great darkness bowled me over…

I struggled to wakefulness an unknown time later. The train was moving again and the lanterns were on. I had a headache rivaling the one I had after getting drunk with Bigby.

"Ugh…" I shut my eyes again and pinched the bridge of my nose.

Edgar chattered at me from the seat, scared for me and angry that he was scared in the first place. I petted him without looking, focused on quelling the pain. It barely abated by the time we pulled into Hogsmeade a few minutes later, and I staggered off the train and into a horseless carriage, barely keeping my balance.

I could hardly pay attention to Dumbledore's welcome speech, and the introduction of the new Defense professor, though I thought I heard that Dementors would be hanging around the school looking for Black this year, and the name of the new fellow was Lupin. I only felt better once the food all appeared and I smelled a jug of hot cocoa nearby. Three cup-fulls of that went a far way towards perking me up.

But despite that, sixth year started off remarkably well. I talked to McGonagall about my O.W.L. results and how that would work for me applying to the Euro-Glyph School, and then I went and chatted with Flitwick, mainly to brag about my O in Charms but also because he was fun to chat with. During our conversation it occurred to me to ask what kind of magic existed to deal with Dementors, since there had to be some. After all, I doubted they guarded Azkaban of their own volition. Flitwick's eyes stopped twinkling at mention of the Dementors, and he folded his hands on his desk.

"Myself and many other teachers at the school strongly disapprove of the Dementors' presence around the grounds," he told me seriously. "But that does not mean I can condone the use of magic by students to harass them. They are here for a very important reason, after all, and we must not jeopardize ourselves by antagonizing them."

"I don't mean to antag—"

"I know they cause some more discomfort than others, Miss Linese, but I'm sorry. I can't tell you."

I acquiesced with poor grace and left shortly afterwards. But even if he wasn't allowed to tell me about the magic, he had at least acknowledged that it existed. I invested the relative free time we had before homework really kicked in researching the topic in the library, and in very short order unearthed the Patronus Charm. It seemed straightforward enough in theory, but proved difficult in practice. I started taking Saturday afternoons to try and teach myself, adopting an unused classroom on the fourth floor as my personal study.

When two months of steady labour resulted in only a sort of pearly mist rather than a corporeal glowing animal like the books said would happen, I was forced to consider what I was doing wrong. It wasn't that I wasn't putting in the effort, because I very much was, or that I was saying it wrong, or using the wrong wand motion. I went back to the book and read it more carefully, but there wasn't anything else in there to help me. The only option was that my thoughts weren't happy enough. I had tried everything I could think of, from getting drunk with Bigby to leaving Mum's house for good to breaking Isaac's nose, but nothing seemed to work. In a fit of frustrated rage near the end of November, I began to question whether I really knew what happiness was. Compounding my foul mood, a large notice had gone up in the Gryffindor common room notifying us that students who would come of age on or before August 31 were eligible to take a twelve-week course to learn how to Apparate. I would finally be able to learn Professor McGonagall's 'vanishing crack'! The very first piece of magic I ever saw performed!

However, the fine print revealed that the fee was twelve Galleons. Twelve. Sodding. Galleons. It was so stupid that money could stand in the way of my learning one of the only kinds of magic I'd been set on since even before getting to school. But stand in my way it did. Even with the accumulated salary from the pub, I barely came up on the right side of eight Galleons. So I got to watch every single one of my classmates and several fifth-years to boot sign up eagerly while I stewed angrily and tried to pretend it wasn't happening.

In one of those fortunate/unfortunate situations so common for me, no one noticed my absences from those lessons because Sirius Black kept breaking into the castle. The Fat Lady got torn and replaced by some wanker called Sir Cadogan, and we slept one night in the Great Hall. I hoped that the Dementors' obvious failure would mean them getting sent away, but no such luck.

Something thoroughly distracted me at the beginning of December though: I got my first ever piece of mail. An owl brought it and everything, a pretty tawny I recognized from the post office in the Alley. I fed her bacon and read the unfamiliar handwriting on the front. It wasn't misaddressed: Nita Linese, Hogwarts School, Scotland UK.

I sent the owl off and opened the envelope curiously, only to be met by a burst of confetti and an actual fanfare. Coughing out paper shreds and glaring at some first years who were giggling down the table, I pulled the letter out.

_Mister Randolph M. Bigby and Madam Marigold P. Malkin are pleased to invite you to the celebration of their marriage on the 30th_ _of December, 1993. Formal dress appreciated but not required. Reception to follow. _

My mouth fell open. Bigby and Madam Malkin? Getting _married?_

I shook the envelope upside down, scattering more confetti across the table in my search for an explanation. Fortunately, another page of parchment fell out, one that I recognized as Bigby's scratch paper by the inky smudges and half-realized designs on the back.

**I meant to tell you to expect this, but I forgot when you were leaving and didn't get to it. You should leave a note next time you go to school. I nearly worried when you didn't come in that night. What day does the holiday start for you lot? – Bigs **

I stared down at the neat, blocky script.

What day _did_ Christmas holiday start? I had never left the school during the shorter holidays. And I might have already signed up with Professor McGonagall to stay over at the school…

It felt weird to see snow and ice rather than bushes and grass out the windows of the Hogwarts Express. I had had to convince Professor McGonagall to take my name off the list to stay over the break, but I thought she even looked amused when I explained the situation. I seemed to do a lot of explaining to her over the years.

The walk from King's Cross to Charing Cross Road was absolutely freezing. I'd have taken the Tube, but I hadn't any Muggle money anymore. The only warm part of me was my neck where Edgar slept as usual. Otherwise, the wind cut through my threadbare cloak, too-big jacket and too-small jumper to chill me like an icicle. Socks had always struck me as a stupid investment, but spending an extended time outdoors found me wishing for a big fluffy, tall, woolen pair, maybe two, with nice gentle warming spells done on them, and my shoes wouldn't have holes in them… And so long as I was dreaming, I wanted a hundred Galleons and a house of my own and a griffin to fly around on, because why not?

I took some time to thaw out once I got to the pub, greeting a surprised Tom and Mary and for some reason apologizing for not telling them I was coming back. They said they were doing a special Christmas Eve dinner and that I should come. I didn't promise, but I said probably.

Bigby didn't smile when he opened the back door to my knock, and that was a relief. Tom and Mary's warm greeting had put me off my stride, and it was nice that Bigby acted like it was normal for me to be there, even though it wasn't.

Something I hadn't considered was Christmas. The wedding was on the thirtieth, but Christmas was before that and it occurred to me like a bolt from the blue that I should probably get gifts for a few people. I felt incredibly stupid for not thinking of it before. So with barely a second thought, I ran out and spent two Sickles and twenty Knuts on a magical quill for Bigby and an earring-bracelet-hair grip set for Madam Malkin for three Sickles. I had to take a day to recuperate from my abrupt splurge, but after due consideration, I considered it worth it. Besides, knowing the shop keepers meant I got the giftwrapping for free.

Tom's Christmas Eve party was a boisterous affair that went on past midnight and involved a lot of alcohol. The highlight had to be when Mundungus Fletcher got up on the bar and did a very terrible jig. I saw a number of people I knew, including some professors, but broke my rule and didn't approach them. It might have been weird since it was a holiday. As I was still underage, the midnight shot of Firewhiskey I did was strictly off the record, and I don't remember much after that. Mary woke me up with a wet mop to the face the next day, as I seemed to have fallen asleep under one of the corner tables, and I spent the morning helping them tidy up before wishing everyone a happy Christmas and going back to Bigby's.

Bigby and I went to Madam Malkin's for Christmas dinner that evening. I had the gifts tucked into my pockets, and as we got closer I was seized by the irrational fear that they wouldn't like them. For anyone else, spending a few Sickles was a pitifully small amount for presents for people who deserved my gratitude.

Bigby let us in and called a greeting as we went upstairs, and set his bag of gifts next to the sofa before he went to kiss his fiancé. I flushed bright red and pretended to be really interested in a doily on the table.

We didn't break our routine till after we ate everything from the roast to the figgy pudding. I had never seen a figgy pudding before in my life, let alone eaten one, and I wasn't sure what to think of it even after having some.

Then we got out the Cribbage's Wizarding Crackers. Three silver song-birds came out of mine, and a top hat which I put on my head and then forgot about. Bigby got a brace of tin men that set about staging battle on the side table, and an incredibly flouncy witch's hat, which he declined to put on. Madam Malkin got a huge bouquet and an actual crown with jewels and things.

Then the presents. Call me stupid, but for some reason it completely escaped me that I'd be receiving presents as well as giving them. Bigby and Madam Malkin both laughed at my surprised expression when she handed me the first package. I peered back and forth between them to make sure I wasn't misunderstanding before hesitantly pulling the paper off.

It was a set of Hogwarts robes, clean and pressed and new and my size.

"I've waited a long time for an excuse to give you those," Madam Malkin said, sounding hugely satisfied.

"Thank you," I said, dumbstruck. The cloth was thick and soft with no worn spots or suspicious stains, and there was a jumper and top and skirt underneath. Wearing these, I would look half decent. Digging through free bins and bargaining with shop keepers kept me clad, but, as Rosemary was so kind to point out once in third year, I looked like a Weasley minus the handmade jumpers and trademark red hair.

Bigby got me a book on important witches through history, and shoes. Madam Malkin insisted I put them on and took my old decrepit pair somewhere straight away and I never saw them again.

Then they opened mine. My anxiety proved unfounded, as Madam Malkin immediately put the jewelry on and Bigby started doodling on wrapping paper once I explained how it worked: by sliding a little tab near the end of it, the nib got wider or narrower. The man who sold it to me said that if it was used regularly and well cared for, it could last up to a decade.

I tried doing the dishes out of habit from the pub, but Madam Malkin told me in no uncertain terms to sit down since I was a guest, so I did.

When we finally got back to his studio late that night, Bigby taught me how to apply tattoos. It was a simple incantation once you wrapped your head around all the similar-sounding syllables. Then he showed me why he wanted me to know. It was a simple painting of a beautiful orange and yellow flower in full bloom with a large bumble bee floating above it. A big bee. And a Marigold.

"You're tattooing the two of you on yourself?" I was sleepy and overfull. That's my excuse for being so slow on the uptake, anyway. In answer, Bigby pulled his shirt off and tapped a spot behind his left shoulder. His back was mostly clear of tattoos, unlike his chest and arms. I imagined that trying to place the image correctly and jab myself with my wand when I couldn't even see what I was doing would be a bit difficult.

"This isn't going to get me kicked out of school for underage magic, is it?" I asked, fingering my wand.

"No," he grunted. "Trace only picks up magic that's happening around you. Coulda been doing magic all these years, they'd never be the wiser since you're in a magic place."

"And you never told me that?" I asked incredulously.

"Never asked," he returned, and made an articulate movement with his shoulder.

Nervously, I began the incantation, holding the image still against the table in a patch of light from the window. After a few repetitions, the petals of the flower began to move slightly, as if experiencing a breeze, and the bee beat its wings lazily. Just as they were getting active enough that they looked like they would fly right off the page, I lifted it and smacked it against Bigby's skin, almost shouting "Chirographum!" and stabbing it a little too hard with my wand. A moment of total silence ensued until I gingerly peeled the paper off. The result made me smile. The ink and paint had become part of his skin, and was acting as it should: the flower undulated gently back and forth, petals waving, while the bee buzzed around it contentedly.

He picked up a small mirror and turned his back to the big one on the wall so he could see our joint handiwork. I waited on his judgment, trying unsuccessfully to banish the butterflies in my stomach.

"Good work," he eventually rumbled, and I grinned.

Going to sleep later that night, I tried to think of the last time I'd had a proper Christmas dinner, with presents and everything. I remember Mum used to give me dolls and puzzles and things when I was a kid, but she got drunker and drunker and more and more bitter as I got older, and Christmas tapered off till it was just another day on the calendar, ditto my birthday. But thinking of Mum brought a bad taste to my mouth, so I just snuggled closer to Edgar and went to sleep.

The wedding was five days later. I dressed in my new school robes, as they were the nicest things I owned, and went with Bigby to the pub, where we took Floo Powder to the real actual Ministry of Magic. I had never traveled by Floo before and found I didn't much care for it, but Bigby kept me distracted from my own discomfort: the poor man looked about to keel over from nerves. He hid it, of course, or tried to. But he was breathing more deeply than usual, and he kept wiping his palms on his dress robes. If he hadn't been so nervous, I would have told him that seeing him in dress robes was a lot like seeing a bear in a tux, but I kept the assessment to myself.

But I wasn't paying such close attention to the anxious wizard next to me that I forgot to look around at everything else. The Floo let us out into a cavernous hall lined with lots of fireplaces on either side and a simply enormous fountain at the far end, all golden with all kinds of magical beings on it, from goblins to a witch and wizard to a centaur. Unfortunately, the people hurrying about were disappointingly normal. After so many summers of spending every day in the Leaky Cauldron, it took a lot to impress me.

Madam Malkin accomplished it when she arrived. She didn't wear a traditional wedding dress since this was her second wedding, as I had learned only a few days previously, so there was no white anywhere, nor veil or train, and very few flounces in general. But all the layers of pale green lace and chiffon certainly were striking when she stepped primly out of a hearth near us and enacted a quick cleaning charm to get all the soot off. They greeted each other warmly (I was impressed at how well Bigby hid his tension when she arrived), and we went past the golden fountain to a bank of elevators, me hanging a step behind. We entered a lift with several other witches and wizards, some of whom greeted Madam Malkin friendlily. We got off at Level 2, home of Magical Certifications, Sanctifications, and Licenses.

We found Office 39D in very little time and Bigby led us in without knocking. Following somewhat distantly, I heard the babble of noise that arose before I saw its source.

There weren't many guests, but I was still surprised because I hadn't been expecting any at all. I recognized three of them: Madam Pomfrey from Hogwarts, Madam Rosmerta from the Three Broomsticks, and the old grizzly fellow who came in twice the first time I ran the counter at the parlour. There was one other lady about Madam Malkin's age, and three other men, one of whom was the Ministry officiate, obvious from his standing slightly apart and fiddling with a large leather-bound folio. Introductions were made quickly, and I forgot everything except that Madams Malkin, Pomfrey, and Rosmerta were sisters.

The ceremony itself was short. The official had them say vows, invoked the ancient laws of wizard-kind, they exchanged rings, and he called them bonded for life. Married just like that! Afterwards we all went back to the Leaky Cauldron and got a private parlour all to ourselves. More people were invited to the reception that to the ceremony, and it was jolly and lively and people even danced when some of Bigby's friends broke out the bagpipes and accordion and tom-tom drum. Several people congratulated me on my "aunt and uncle's nuptials" and I gave up trying to correct them after a while. I had a wonderful time though, even when the camera came out and someone pushed me into the frame. I was in a lot of the pictures, actually, and I even got a copy of one of the newlyweds and the wedding party, with me just between Bigby and his grizzly friend, conspicuously nervous. I put it in the book Bigby had given me for Christmas so that it wouldn't get bent.

Armed with this experience, I again attacked the issue of the Patronus Charm when I got back to school. I met with some slight success. There seemed to be more of a form in the mist now, though it stubbornly refused to coalesce. I thought about asking Professor Lupin, but he was ill so often that I didn't want to bother him. Flitwick had flat out refused to help, and the only other option was Snape. He had to know a fair bit of Defense since he was always the substitute when Lupin was out. But the thought of asking the odious and cruel Snape for something was worse than simply failing, so I toiled on alone.

So the year went on calmly for several months with the usual routine of classes and homework, punctuated by the occasional Weasley twin prank or Quidditch game. It was after the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff game that the year went haywire again. We won, thanks to Potter, and the resulting party went on well past midnight. I didn't stay that long, so I slept through everything between Patrick Kapp and Gideon getting into a fistfight over some fourth year girl and someone screaming bloody murder in the boy's dorm because Black tried to murder someone. Stories differed on whether he'd been going for Potter or Ron Weasley, since all logic pointed to the former while eye-witness accounts swore the latter. Curfews and rules were stricter for the rest of the year so I had to give up my private Patronus practice sessions.

But Potter still got mixed up in some kind of nonsense around the end of the year, reportedly involving Professors Snape and Lupin, Ron Weasley's rat, and Black himself. It came out over the next couple of days that Professor Lupin was a werewolf and half the school threw a fit about it, so there went the best yet Defense teacher I'd had. It wasn't a good way to end the year, but at least no one got Petrified or anything. And the Dementors were gone too.

In the midst of all that, I turned seventeen. I wish the memory brought me some sort of positive feeling rather than shame and rage, but no: some of my dorm mates had somehow discovered my birth date and sent me a fake present. It was one of those little square boxes like necklaces or bracelets come in, and I, excited and touched, thinking it to be from Bigby or Madam Malkin despite the lack of attendant note, had opened it. As soon as the lid parted company from the box, a squirt of dark, sticky ink splattered full in my face. The immediate shrieks of laughter from down the table were more than enough for me to tag the perpetrators.

Upon reflection, which only lasted long enough for me to wipe the most obvious of the mess from my cheeks, I decided I was glad. I had been waiting for an excuse to get my ever-growing irritation with Rosemary and that general group out of my system. This little prank was simply the kiss on the invitation. So I watched with smug pleasure throughout the day as their discomfiture grew. I knew they had expected me to make a scene because that's what they would have done. So I let the ink dry on my face and hair and didn't so much as look at any of them as we went through classes. I lost points from Snape because my appearance didn't show adequate respect for his subject, but I didn't mind. That night I had a shower and did homework in the window seat with Edgar before going to bed early.

The next morning, I was just as mystified and furious as everyone else as to how all of our pillows had become giant balloons full of paint, which had burst sometime in the night to dye everyone's hair a different colour. Although, I had somehow escaped the fate. When an irate, blue-haired Rosemary dragged me in front of Professor McGonagall to formally accuse me based on the evidence of my avoidance of the prank, I pointed out that I didn't use a pillow because it hurt my neck, so of course it wouldn't have gotten paint all over me.

"But she hates us!" Rosemary shrieked. "She wanted revenge!"

"Revenge for what?" McGonagall asked coolly.

Rosemary faltered, glancing back at our other three paint-stained dorm-mates, before forging on. "For—she thinks we were responsible for the package she got yesterday, with the ink and everything."

"I do not," I protested loudly. "It was obviously the boys. We're all too good friends for that, aren't we?"

I was met with four glares, even from the usually placid Kay. Ignoring them, I turned back to McGonagall. "I bet it was the boys, both times. They're on an ink spree, I guess."

"Miss Linese, male students are not able to enter the girls' dormitories."

I sent a conspicuous glance towards India. "Tell that to Gideon Grown, ma'am."

The maelstrom that followed must have gone down in Hogwarts history as one of the noisiest events ever recorded. We all missed our first class, India got detention for trying to punch me, and Rosemary got detention for actually punching India after it came out that India had been snogging Gideon, who was ostensibly dating Rosemary at the time, and I hid under McGonagall's desk till it all died down. And even after that, all of them had to go back to the dorm to wash their hair, which was a project and a half. And unnecessary one too, since I had kindly made the paint Vanishable. But I digress.

Going home to the Alley felt strange after having been there so recently at Christmas. It was also around that time that I caught myself calling the Alley 'home'. I thought that a little ironic at the time, because the one place that could rationally be called that—Bigby's back room—was being called into question. He had told me he would be moving in with Madam Malkin after the wedding, though his shop was staying the same. But would he let me keep my accustomed place? Maybe he would think it wasn't alright anymore. I dawdled on the walk from King's Cross, giving myself time to think it over.

If worse came to worst, I could always try renting a room somewhere. Lots of shops had flats above them, and not all of them were fully occupied. And I was of age as of the 10th of June, so I could get a proper job that would pay enough for me to support myself. I bet Tom would give me at least a small raise if I asked. That might be good to do even if I didn't have to. I couldn't sleep on Bigby's floor indefinitely, and since I was going to be graduating after only one more year of Hogwarts, it would be good to set up a rapport with some of the landlords of the Alley in a more formal business sense.

But dawdle though I might, I eventually reached the Leaky Cauldron. The bar was empty due to the late hour and I went through to the Alley quickly. The five minute walk to Bigby's was quiet and seemed eerie since I was so used to its bustling state during the day. As I got to the turn-off, I wondered if he would even still be there to let me in. The idea of camping behind the bar for a night didn't overly bother me, but I had done a fair job to date of keeping the fact that I was technically homeless out of general knowledge and I would rather it stay that way.

I needn't have worried. Through the window next to the door, I saw him working on something by lamplight, focused and calm and still as always. He looked up when I tapped on the pane, and opened the door for me.

"Late this year," he said gruffly, taking my trunk from me.

"I know, sorry. I, er, got distracted on the way from the train station."

His silence called griffin-shit, but he didn't say anything. Edgar poked his head out of my hood, sensing we were indoors and safe and I extended my arm so he could run down it to the table.

"How's the shop?" I asked, watching Bigby move his papers out of Edgar's trajectory. For some reason the ferret had a taste for particular types of ink and had eaten quite a few designs before we figured out what the common thread was.

He gestured vaguely. "Same. Marigold'll be glad to see you."

"It's still okay that I stay here, right?" The words were out before I authorized them, and I bit my lip nervously.

I couldn't quite make out his expression in the dim light, but I thought I saw his eyebrows sink. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because—I don't know, you're living with Madam Malkin now and I'm already of age and I'm not even doing anything to pay you back and I don't—"

"I met my wife through you, didn't I?" he interrupted.

"Well—yes, but that's—"

"The most valuable thing anyone's ever done for me," he cut me off again. "Sit." I pulled a bench out from under the table and did as he said. "Listen. Even if that hadn't happened, you'd still be sleeping here and I still would have fed you all those times." He checked to see if I was listening, which I definitely was. I had never heard so many words come out of Bigby's mouth at one time before. "I had a brother, three years older than me. Thought he was the greatest thing to ever walk the earth. Dropped out of school and ran away when he was fifteen. Never saw him again. I always hoped he'd find a way to live, with people to care for him. You out there behind the bins, all wet and small and fierce, made me think I'd been given a chance to do just that. So you'll stay here as long as you need and that's the last word." Slowly, almost tentatively, he reached out and patted the top of my fluffy blonde head. I stayed perfectly still even after he stopped. It was the only time he ever touched me, and we never referred to that conversation again.

Would it make sense to say I was relieved? I had spent almost six summers sleeping on his floor and eating food he made, and I had never had any idea why. I never felt I had done anything to deserve his help. Even him calling me responsible for his marriage felt like a bit of a stretch. Knowing that it wasn't personal, that he simply wanted to pay it forward out of affection for his lost brother was very comforting.

I took on more hours at the pub that summer, and Tom offered a raise without me even asking. Having cash flexibility was hugely relieving. Going for years on a small and often unreliable income taught me the value of frugality and care, but it also kept me stressed and anxious about the future. I bought first-hand books for the first time in my life (except in the case of Lockheart), and another set of robes like the ones Madam Malkin gave me, and lots of socks. I talked with Tom about continuing to work for him after I graduated, with which he unreservedly agreed. Madam Malkin quizzed me about my post-graduation plans too, even though Bigby told her off at least twice, asking what kind of just-recently-seventeen-year-old knew what they wanted to do with their lives. I told them both about my hopes of attending the Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages to quell the bickering. Since my weird language talent wasn't something I often talked about, I had to explain that too, and wound up using the analogy of a chess prodigy since neither of them seemed quite able to understand the fact that I could literally speak any language set before me if I had heard enough of it and focused hard.

I took a day off in mid-August to visit the London campus School, but either I got the address wrong or they were closed for summer because I couldn't get in. If it was the right place, I had to commend them for doing such a good job on camouflage. It looked just like every other boarded up old munitions factory in the area. But to tell the truth, I wasn't really invested in going. Talking with Bigby the night I got back made me think that there might be something I could do rather than just wandering through my life. I could help kids like me who had nowhere to go. Not an orphanage, per se, because I wasn't an orphan, but a place for wandering, homeless kids. Like the Lost Boys of Peter Pan. Of course, I had no idea how to set about doing that. So for the time being, I focused on getting through the summer.

I suppose I ought to have grown used to hearing about things through the pub, but somehow the Quidditch World Cup caught me by surprise. I knew people had been talking about it, and the _Prophet_ often featured the results of the lead-up games somewhere on the front page. So I wasn't surprised that business was slow on the 22nd of August. I was surprised by the newspaper the next day claiming there had been a riot after the game and that someone had cast You-Know-Who's sign in the sky. I read Muggles had been tortured and that Bulgaria's Seeker had caught the Snitch but they'd still lost the game. The reporter was obviously a bit frazzled when he wrote the article.

Resulting from this, the general atmosphere of the Alley was tense for the next week until I left for my final year at Hogwarts.

**A/N**

**Aaand next week the plot begins! I know it's a lot of backstory, but I wanted folks to understand where she's coming from before we dive into the narrative.**

**Chapter 3, "Announcement", will go up next Tuesday!**

**All characters (except for mine) are owned by JK Rowling, Warner Bros, etc.  
**

**E.I. signing out**


	3. Announcement

_Chapter 3 – Announcement_

I leave Bigby a note, just like he asked, saying thanks and I'd see him next summer and have a good year. It is brief and stilted, but I'm not at all sure what to say. I'm honestly still a little puzzled as to why he wants me to do it in the first place.

The Alley always takes a while to come awake in the morning, so almost no one sees me drag my trunk from behind the parlour and through the pub. The air is crisp and chill on the half-hour walk between the pub and the station, and I use it to brace myself against the foreknowledge of a whole nine months of sharing a room with India and Rosemary and Kay and Alexandra again. We'd all be of-age this year. Only Alexandra and I had turned seventeen before the end of sixth year, along with all of the boys except Jon and Gideon. But all of us being of age only means that there will be more ridiculous things to avoid besides the odd pinched arse and rigged parcel.

I try not to think how strange it is that this is the last time I will walk through the barrier to the Platform. That the scarlet train will never again wait and whistle for me. I try not to think that I am going into my seventh year, that N.E.W.T.s are looming and that I have only very vague plans for the future. I'm going to apply to the Euro-Glyph School, but I eventually want to be able to help kids like me, and you need real money to do that, and I have exactly five Galleons, sixteen Sickles and fifteen Knuts to my name.

But all that is for the future. For now, I board the train, on hand dragging my trunk, the other tucked into my hood to keep Edgar company. He sleeps more, now that he is older. Nearly eight is old for a ferret, and he is rickety. Though, Alexandra Lake's cat is nearly thirty, she claims, and he doesn't look a day over five, so there's really no telling with magical pets. Edgar may well outlive me. I doubt it though. We were both Muggles first, he and I.

I choose an empty compartment and settle in. I expect no one to join me, and no one does. After six years of schooling together, my year-mates have learned to avoid me. I suppose it's partially my fault for being asocial and rude, but it's not like they ever made much of an effort either. But anyway, the train ride passes uneventfully. I read for a while, and play with Edgar, and stare out the window absently. I wonder who the new Defense professor will be. Since it's my N.E.W.T. year, I want it to be someone good, not another fop like Lockheart.

I think I fall asleep at some point, because I don't remember anything between the candy trolley coming around and Edgar nibbling on my thumbnail at dusk. I had to start walking from the Alley early to get to the station on time, and I feel as though I should refrain from falling asleep during the welcome feast. We'd hit a big rain storm while I'd been sleeping, but the beat of the rain on the roof on the train is comforting and makes me feel contained. It's almost just like the sound of the rain on the roof of the tattoo parlour in the Alley.

The train slows to an eventual stop, and I tuck Edgar deep into the back of my hood and head out into the rain and the throng. I find a horseless carriage with a trio of third-year Hufflepuffs and we comfortably ignore each other all the way up to the castle after the initial greeting nods. I never get sick of seeing Hogwarts appear through the carriage window as we round the edge of the Forest. Especially at night, with all the windows sparkling in the great hulking darkness of the castle, it still reminds me of a fairy tale. I have had better views of it in the past, when it hasn't been storming, but if anything the pouring rain makes it look more mysterious and wonderful.

As is my custom, I sit near the top of Gryffindor table, close to the teachers, but not close enough to have to associate with the new first-years. My own year-mates sit as far from me as possible. The paint incident from the end of last year is still fresh in their collective memory, as well as the detention that I didn't suffer for it. I smugly anticipate a quiet week or two before they get bold enough to try anything on me.

The Hall bursts into applause as McGonagall leads the new students in, each and every one looking peaky and scared, except one boy who is soaking wet and wrapped in Hagrid's coat. He gives Colin Creevey two thumbs up and mouths 'I fell in the lake!'. I welcome the newest Gryffindor with approval. The Sorting begins with the Hat's song, as usual. I always regret not hearing my own Sorting song, but I've learned that it only varies a certain degree from year to year.

Professor McGonagall calls a trembling boy named 'Ackerley, Stewart' who quickly goes to Ravenclaw, and the Sorting progresses from there. The boy in Hagrid's coat, 'Creevey, Dennis', becomes the first new Gryffindor, but after that there are several hatstalls, and my stomach is cramping hungrily by the time 'Whitby, Kevin' goes to Hufflepuff. I groan quietly as Dumbledore stands up, but all he says is "Tuck in," and food fills the platters. I dig in excitedly, occasionally passing morsels to Edgar in my hood. The fare at the pub is fine and everything, but there's something special about Hogwarts food. So I'm stuffed and cozy by the time Dumbledore stands again and the Hall goes still. The storm is still heard howling outside, and dense dark clouds obscure the ceiling.

"So!" says Dumbledore, smiling down at us. I have never so much as made eye-contact with the Headmaster of Hogwarts, but I like him anyway. You can always tell he gets a lot more than he lets on. "Now that we are all fed and watered—" Somewhere down the table someone sniffs disdainfully. "—I must once more ask for your attention." He goes on for a couple minutes about newly banned items, including Ever-Bashing Boomerangs, which I know Gideon owns at least one of, having seen it in action on the train, etc. I start to fade out after a minute until a hubbub of protest rises around me and I jerk to attention.

"He can't cancel it!" a fifth year boy near me says incredulously.

"It's Quidditch!" his companion agrees angrily.

Dumbledore overrides the rumble of protest: "This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy—but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts—"

Before he can finish, the doors to the Great Hall crash open, accompanied by an impressive rumble of thunder. Everyone in the Hall turns to see who on earth would be arriving _after_ the feast had already ended. Did some first year get left at the station, like that year Potter and Weasley drove a car into the Whomping Willow? No: a man stands in the opening, swaddled in a black traveler's cloak and leaning heavily on a staff. He throws back his hood, but from my distance and with the dimness, I can make out no details besides his long, dark grey hair as he begins to make his way towards the teachers' table. A muffled bump echoes through the Hall with every other step he takes. He turns right at the table and goes towards Dumbledore, and another crack of lighting illuminates the hall.

I hear several people gasp loudly, but seeing his face clearly causes me to lose interest. It's only Mad-Eye Moody. He comes by the pub occasionally and makes whoever brings the food taste it for him first. No mystery there. In fact, seeing him causes me to realize that I had not noticed a new face among the professors. Looks like Mad-Eye is the poor soul doing Defense this year. Not that calling Mad-Eye a 'poor soul' is something I would ever suggest doing to his face for risk of dire retribution. The first time I ever saw him at the pub, he did a Full Body-Bind Jinx on a man just because the man pinched Mary's bum. Not that I broken noses for the same thing….

He reaches Dumbledore and they exchange a few words before Mad-Eye takes the vacant seat down the table. He pulls a plate of sausage to his face, sniffs it, produces a little knife from somewhere, and begins to eat. At least he doesn't ask Madam Pomfrey to test it for him. His normal, small, dark eye stays fixed on the meat, while his queer blue magical one ranges all across the Hall, from the storming ceiling to the big windows behind him to the silent students, all of whom stare back.

"May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Moody," Dumbledore says chipperly. He and Hagrid are the only ones to clap, and they stop quickly. Dumbledore clears his throat. "As I was saying," he goes on, smiling down at all of us even though mostly everyone is still staring at Mad-Eye, "we have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event which has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."

"You're JOKING!" one of the Weasley twins yells, earning chuckles.

Dumbledore cheerfully disagrees, and goes on at some length explaining the history of the Tournament, the rough schedule of the year, how the champions will be chosen and the age limit on them, and the riches and glory lying in wait for the victor. My eyes glaze over when I hear that part: _a thousand whole Galleons…_ Bugger the Triwizard Cup and glory for Hogwarts, that's a buggering huge sum of money. Edgar and I could live for years on money like that. I could bypass a lot of trouble and go straight to helping kids like me with money like that.

I'm definitely submitting myself. I'm of age, and I'm good enough at magic, except Transfiguration. I'm confident I can win.

Coming to this conclusion causes me to miss about a minute of Dumbledore's speech, and the next thing I hear is "Bedtime! Chop chop!" There is a great scraping and banging as students stand and go towards the door, and the crowd bursts from its unity into a million excited conversations. A little way down the queue, the Weasley twins are vowing to get in to the Tournament somehow, and many other underage students look determined as well. But most of the seventh-years and some sixths look excited and thoughtful. I wind up behind a clump from my dormitory, and the conversation, predictably enough, is centered on who should submit themselves and who should be selected.

"I'll definitely do it," Gideon says confidently. "Make a name for myself in the world. Plus, a thousand Galleons!" He laughs expansively, earning nervous looks from some savvy second-years.

"My father will definitely encourage me to enter," Wendell says pompously. I think the only thing my fellow seventh-years and I ever really agreed on is that solidly ignoring Wendell is the only possible way to deal with him. "Our name goes back a long way. I _am_ Wendell Abrams the _sixth,_ you know. It's only proper."

"No thanks," Kay says with patient good humor. "It's our N.E.W.T. year. Leave this Tournament business to some sprightly young sixth-year."

Amar nods agreement. He and Kay are often of a mind on these sorts of things, which makes them a good pair for Prefects.

"Come o-o-on," Isaac cajoles, elbowing the serious-faced Amar in the ribs. "We're seventh-years, and Gryffindors to boot! We've got to leave a mark on this place, you know? I know if I'm chosen, I'll be taking my Champion's rights with a few of you ladies, if you know what I mean." He leers at Alexandra, the only of my dorm mates he has not already managed to take certain liberties with, mostly due to Alexandra's extremely thick head.

"I don't know if I should," Alexandra says whinily, missing Isaac's lecherous expression and proving her thick-headedness beyond doubt. "I mean, it sounds exciting, but Dumbledore said people _died_ in the last one they did!" I must have missed that part of the speech. Oh well. "I don't know. It sounds really cool, but I don't want to get hurt."

Rosemary, in rolling her eyes at her subordinate, notices me several steps behind. "What about you, Nita?" she asks brightly. "Thinking of submitting your name?"

"Of course," I say shortly.

"Such a snappy decision?" she sneers.

"Of course," I repeat. I run my life on the principle of snap decisions. It's the reason I'm at Hogwarts, for instance. And the reason I have Edgar. Hasn't let me wrong so far.

She snorts and rolls her eyes, and the group collectively dismisses me. We get to the portrait hole ("Balderdash," says Kay) and pass into the common room. We're among the first to get in, and Gideon and Isaac immediately start a game of Exploding Snaps, attracting the few others who got in before us. Disinterested, I climb the girls' spiral stairs to our dorm, halfway up, and settle into the bed just to the left of the door. Edgar crawls from my robes and curls up on my pillow. I smile and pet him gently. His fur has become patchy and his eyes are crusty more often than not. He moves slowly and eats less. He's so dear to me and I'd give anything to keep him forever. I sniff away tears when I hear the others coming up and go wash my teeth before they take over the bog.

I avoid the sink as much as possible because the sink includes the mirror. I don't need to spend minutes at a time staring at myself like some of my peers. I know what I look like: the same as ever. I'm still fairly short, despite my every wish and effort to the contrary. My hair is blonde and fluffy like always, and short as it had been for the past five years. After my first few weeks in the Alley after first year, long hair proved too impractical, so I chopped it all off with the kitchen shears at the pub. I tend to bow my shoulders because of my burn, which contracts my skin inwards, though I do make an effort to keep my back straight. My breasts stayed small, good thing, and I have no figure to speak of. I'm bony, and my face tends towards the severe, especially during summer when I'm not eating quite enough. Hazel eyes, straight nose, tight mouth. I don't consider myself attractive, but it has nothing to do with self-esteem. I just have other things to worry about.

I wash my teeth and go to bed, Edgar snuggled into my neck.

We get our schedules the next morning at breakfast. I peruse mine sleepily, nursing a cup of strong tea. Ever since I turned fourteen, waking up at any hour before ten has become dreadfully difficult. But since I have Transfiguration first thing in the morning twice a week, I have no choice in the matter. I admit I was surprised Professor McGonagall allowed me into her Newt level classes after I only got an A on my Owl. I'm not talented at Transfiguration—the concept of changing something just to suit my own preference still stymies me—but I have put a lot of effort into it over the years and apparently she saw that.

The rest of my classes I'm more than competent in: Charms, Ancient Runes, Potions, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Being a seventh-year means a lot of time between classes to do the exorbitant amount of homework expected of us, so I only have my Ancient Runes tutorial on Mondays besides Transfiguration.

One unlooked-for blessing of being in the higher years, I reflect as I head up the great marble stairs to the classroom levels, is that I don't have every single one of my classes with every single one of my dorm-mates. No one's in my Runes tutorial because my gift for languages set me so far ahead, and nearly everyone except Gideon and Jon stopped Potions as soon as they could because of Snape. True, plenty of people are still in Charms and Defense, but anything's a blessing really.

Of course, no one pays the least attention to classes, especially in my year. Everyone's talking about the Tournament. Notes fly between desks when teachers' backs are turned, friends mouth exaggerated words to one another, there's not a sentence said in the halls that doesn't have the word 'Triwizard' in it. In fact, it's not until Wednesday's Defense Against the Dark Arts class that anyone even remotely settles down, and it's only due to Mad-Eye's incredibly intimidating demeanor. Defense is the largest class I have: Charms, Transfiguration and Potions all hit the mid or high twenties, but there are 34 of us in Defense. We owe the size of the class to Professor Lupin: when he heard what a complete flowerpot Lockheart was, he lowered the requisite OWL grade from E to A, saying that anyone who managed to pass with that man as the professor obviously knows what they're doing.

Mad-Eye enters the classroom exactly on time, ignoring every single curious gaze and half-hidden whisper. He does not ignore Gideon and Isaac playing hangman, and snatches the parchment away as he passes their desk, making Gideon's quill rip a long tear in it. Mad-Eye crumples it up expressionlessly, tosses it on his desk and lights it on fire with a flick of his wand. There is not a single inattentive student in the room after that.

"Alastor Moody," he growls, beginning to pace back and forth. _Clunk-shuff-clunk-shuff_ go his feet. "Ex-Auror. Ministry malcontent. And your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

We stare, some with our mouths hanging open. Not me, of course. I've seen Mad-Eye before, interacted with him more than once. He doesn't shock me. Just intimidates me. I'm wondering if he remembers me, and if he remembers me, should I say hello.

"Seventh years, eh? Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests, eh? _Newts_." His magical blue eye goes whizzing around in its socket and his tongue flickers out across his lips. He produces a pocket flask from somewhere in his coat and takes a heavy swig. He doesn't act like it's particularly delicious, but he goes on lecturing afterwards and we all forget it.

"I've had letters from some of your previous professors. Your education is patchy to say the least. So, term till Christmas will be focused on revision and catch-up in a few key areas. Christmas to Easter will be practical magic and silent spell-casting. Easter till the exam will be based on what you lot still feel iffy on. Got it?"

We all nod mutely.

He's brusque and efficient throughout class, outlining how the year is going to go, the curriculum, important essays, and the date of our exam, which he writes on the chalkboard and circles twice. No pressure. He also finds excuses to bellow "CONSTANT VIGILANCE" at us several times, and mine is not the only heart racing, I'm sure.

"Get out!" he barks when the bell goes, and out we get. I berate myself for not approaching him as I had thought to at the start of class, but he really is daunting. And I don't want to look like a teacher's pet, because I'm not one. But if he can be convinced to write me a character reference for my CV or something someday, it's better to get my foot in the door early. But I don't, and scold myself all through lunch. But at least, I reflect, munching on shepherd's pie, this would be better than Owls. True, we'd had Lockheart for Owls, so it would take a legitimate effort to do worse, but still.

After lunch, I go up to the sixth floor for my Ancient Runes tutorial with Professor Babbling. My language talent had allowed me to speed ahead of my classmates before fifth year. I finished the seventh year curriculum in the middle of last year, so since then I've been training with her individually and helping with some professional deciphering she does for _Translation Today_. Personally, I find deciphering to be a mind-numbing activity. There is no life or energy in it, unlike with spoken tongues.

When I get to her office, she is very excited about something new in from Turkey, and we spend an hour and a half poring over it, making notes on margins and thumbing through reference books. The work is boring, but Professor Babbling is cheerful and buoyant, her room is pleasant and breezy from the open window, and I come very close to enjoying myself.

Friday begins well with Charms and ends poorly with Potions. I've always been good at Charms: it's all the little miscellaneous things that makes magic useful and interesting and fun. And there's room to be creative there, unlike with Transfiguration. So nothing in particular has to happen for me to enjoy it, and nothing does. Potions is another story.

If the subject had been taught by any other professor, Potions would have been my favorite class (next to Ancient Runes). But Snape was such a bloody bastard that the only real pleasure I derive is during those brief moments of silence when he stalks between the work tables and I am able to chop and stir and mix in peace. On this particular Friday, not only are there none of those moments, but I get perfectly undeserved detention. (And I'd like to add that if Madam Malkin ever laid eyes on Snape, she would have immediately rescinded her assessment of _my_ clothes as 'bat-like'.)

When I come back from turning in my phial of potion at Snape's desk, finish tidying my things away and have my book and supplies in my bag, I realize I'm missing something: my wand. I spin about on the spot, searching the floor to see if it rolled under a table when a motion catches the corner of my eye. I turn and look, and see it's Athenias Ash, the Slytherin girl I shared my work table with. She twirls my wand uncaringly around her fingers, smirking at me. My blood goes hot, then cold. It'd be useless to take a swing at her: she's a heavy-set girl, and quite tall, whereas I am skinny and short. Besides, she has home-field advantage. If I start anything here, even with a perfectly reasonable goal like recovering my wand, Snape would still land the punishment on me. Several other Slytherins stand around her, snickering.

"Give me my wand, Ash," I say, voice low.

"Why?" she scoffs. "I saw you in Transfiguration yesterday, Linese. Itty bitty Mudblood can't even figure out Crinus Muto? I don't think you really need this if _that_ was the best you can do." My face burns. Not at the slur—I've never let such things bother me, and 'Mudblood' has become more and more of a popular one over the last several years and is nearing the point of impotency—but the jibe at my lack of skill in Transfiguration.

"Aww, look Athenias, she's upset!" jeers Ursula Pike, another girl from Slytherin. "Is the little Mudblood going to cry for us? Go on, I haven't had a good laugh in a long time!"

"Give me my wand, Ash," I repeat, struggling to keep my voice from trembling with anger. My wand is my single most valuable possession, and by far the most expensive. How in the world would I go about getting a new one if she broke it? How in the world would I resist skinning my fists on her teeth?

"Give her a break, Ash," Gideon calls abruptly, and I frown distrustfully. Ash's eyes widen.

"What's this, Grown? Got a thing for little Miss Mudblood?"

"Hardly," he replies, grinning cockily. "But you can't blame her for being an uptight twat: she doesn't spend nearly enough time with her legs apart."

The gathered Slytherins cackle delightedly and Ash makes a move to slide my wand into her pocket. My self-control shatters and I leap at her, screaming "GIVE IT TO ME!" The ensuing scuffle results in Ash suffering a scratched face and arm, me getting elbowed in the face, and ultimately the reclamation of my wand, all before Snape bellows "_PROTEGO!"_ and we go whirling apart from one another.

"What is the meaning of this!" he barks, striding between the rows of desks. I pick myself up gracelessly, shoving my hair out of my face and by doing so learning that I've got a bloody nose.

"She attacked me!" Ash shrills, thrusting her lacerated cheek into the Potion Master's gaze. "We were having a perfectly nice conversation and she just leapt at me and gouged me!" I scoff. Snape's dark eyes glitter.

"What do you have to say for yourself, Linese?" His voice is silky. "Attacking a classmate unprovoked? A crime punishable in any case."

"I wasn't unprovoked!" I protest angrily. "She took my wand off the desk while I was at the front and wouldn't give it back!" Behind the smirking professor and his glowering student, the rest of my classmates gather like a pack of ravening wolves, grinning and tittering in expectation of my imminent execution, Slytherins and Gryffindors alike. The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, less involved, look on from near the door, awkward or anxious.

"You left your wand unattended?" Snape purrs. "Careless. One would almost accuse you of negligence. Detention." I grit my teeth and nod. "And thank Miss Ash for watching over your property while you apparently had better things to do."

"WHAT!" I explode.

"Shall we make it a week of detention?" he murmurs.

I glower, weighing the options. Endure a whole week of slavery under Snape with my pride intact, or get away light and be forced to keep my head down from shame, perhaps indefinitely. Neither appeals, but I know which one I have to take.

"Yes sir, we should," I growl. Susurrus whispers sweep the dungeon classroom. Snape's eyebrows rise a fraction of a millimeter.

"Very well, Linese. And to ensure your good behavior, I'll be keeping your wand until the detention is completed on Wednesday. You will have to make your excuses to the other teachers."

"But I need it for homework! And class!" I object frantically.

"Not mine."

For a moment I can only gape at him. Snape is known for his unreasonable favoritism and penchant for unfair punishment, but this is something else again.

"I'm waiting, Linese," he says, extending one pallid, long-fingered hand expectantly.

Trembling with rage, I stretch out my arm and lay my wand—_my bloody wand_—across his palm. His fingers close around it and it vanishes into his robes.

"Miss Balassi." He names one of the Slytherin Prefects. "Escort Miss Ash to the hospital wing. The rest of you are dismissed. Miss Linese will remain to arrange her detentions."

When I leave the dungeons fifteen minutes later, I am in a worse mood than ever before. Even by counting screaming at Ash, scratching her in the face, and in the arm all as separate crimes, a week of detention is still exorbitant. And he took my _wand!_ Is that even allowed?

Madam Pomfrey is impassive as she heals my nose and vanishes the blood that has soaked my robes. Dinner is nearly over when I reach the Great Hall, and I barely manage to grab scraps for Edgar before everything disappears.

The weekend is torture. Doing homework is like trying to eat a meal with the main course missing. I don't dare do anything further to Ash, of course, but none of my classmates see anything wrong with heckling me in the common room or Dining Hall, and I take up the habit of spending most of my time in the library again, or the old classroom I used to use for Patronus practice, with Edgar as my only company. And both of my evenings after dinner are spent in drudgery in the dungeon. As such, I nearly miss the stories about Mad-Eye going around the school. Apparently he turned that Slytherin brat Malfoy into a ferret after he tried to jinx Potter. If Mad-Eye hadn't secured his position as Favorite Teacher before, he certainly has it now.

I've never looked forward to a Monday more. I'm secretly hoping that we're having a practical lesson in Transfiguration, even though I'm rubbish at them, so that I can tell Professor McGonagall about Snape confiscating my wand and she can go into a righteous rage on my behalf, but no such luck: a lecture day. And of course deciphering with Professor Babbling requires no wand-work. I report to the dungeon after dinner and spend a miserable hour scrubbing the flagstone floor clean of some careless second year's Sticking Solution that got spilled earlier. The scrubbing itself isn't miserable. In fact it's easier than some of the things I've had to clean at the pub. What makes it miserable is that the whole time, Snape sits at his desk reading essays and tapping _my wand_ absently against the pages. I'm dirty and damp by the time I finish, and all he says is "Same time tomorrow."

The next two days are similar. There is a practical lesson in Charms, but it's partner work, and the Hufflepuff I'm paired with, Anna Crinkle, takes up the whole lesson perfecting her spelling motion, so my wandless state never comes to Flitwick's attention. Potions is a nightmare that afternoon, for obvious reasons, and I barely get through it without bashing Ash's face in with her own cauldron.

I'm due to get my wand back on Wednesday, so I'm antsy and impatient all day. We've double Defense in the morning, and finally, when it's well-nigh too late, we have a practical lesson. Mad-Eye disappears most of the desks, leaving a large clear space in the middle of the room. I always get a bit nervous when teachers do that, even though my stuff has always come back in the past.

"Partners!" he calls and in the resultant shuffle I somehow get Wendell foisted on me. Despite my previous desire for a teacher to notice my wandlessness, I find I want to conceal it from Mad-Eye. I don't know he'd see it quite my way. But of course…

"Professor?" Wendell has his hand raised, blue eyes over-earnest.

"Abrams," Mad-Eye growls.

"I'd like a different partner, one I can actually, you know, _do the work with_." He pushes his glasses up his nose. Some of our classmates snigger and I do my best to ignore them as my face colours.

Our teacher fastens his little dark eye on us, the other zooming around to examine something on the ceiling. He walks over to us, _thunk-shuff-thunk-shuff._"What's wrong with Linese?"

"Well, she hasn't got her wand, you see."

Both of Mad-Eye's mad eyes lock on me now. "And where is her wand?" he says, though the question is obviously addressed to me.

"In the custody of Professor Snape until eight o' clock this evening," I say evenly.

"Why does Snape have your bleeding wand?" he demands.

"He confiscated it because I clawed Athenias Ash in the face. And gave me detention." I can't help it if the truth sounds like whining sometimes.

I think I see his deformed mouth begin to smile. "And why did you claw Athenias Ash in the face?"

I pause, then take a deep breath. "She took my wand without permission, and wouldn't return it when I asked. I wasn't practicing constant vigilance, sir, or it wouldn't have happened."

"HA!" He barks a laugh. "I see something I've said has sunk in! Abrams, join Kilton and Ingle." Wendell looks put out to be assigned two Slytherins as partners, and I smirk. "Linese, find a seat and take notes on what you see. One roll of parchment for next week describing what you observe in addition to the usual homework."

"Yes sir."

Class passes swiftly after that, and by the end of it, I have decided to approach Mad-Eye after all. The deciding factor is that he doesn't seem to recognize me at all, even though I feel like he should, even only vaguely.

He reminds us of the homework as our desks and bags and things reappear and everyone files out, chattering about the lesson. I head towards his desk instead.

"What is it?" he asks, aiming his magical eye my way while his regular one focuses on his desk where he's sifting through papers.

"I'm, uh, sorry about not being able to participate in the lesson, sir. If Snape didn't have my wand—"

"But he does, doesn't he?" he cut in. "What do you want, Linese?"

I scowl. I should have known better than to take the circuitous route with Mad-Eye Moody. "I was wondering if you recognized me, sir."

He fixes me with a beady stare. "Ought I?"

"From the Leaky Cauldron, sir. Last year, after you made me test your soup, you pulled a Knut from behind me ear, then swallowed it and told me never to trust anyone."

"And I was right, wasn't I?" Both of his eyes are on me now, squinting black and zany blue.

I hesitate for a long moment. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Hop it to lunch then."

I don't hop, but the Great Hall is my eventual destination. I can't tell why I'm disappointed that he doesn't remember me. He's a busy man who does important things. It's natural for him to have made more of an impression on me than I did on him. But still, there had seemed something specific in his regard last year, as if he really wanted me to learn the lesson he was imparting.

Deciphering with Babbling after lunch distracts me, though not enough to make me forget the scant number of hours left before I get my wand back. In fact, I'm almost early to detention, so eager am I for that event. Snape is sneering and harsh throughout the hour as I sit skinning Flobberworms. The minutes drag by until the little clock on his desk rings seven times, and I hastily wipe my hands and forearms off and deposit my soupy handiwork in the supply closet. Snape moves excruciatingly slowly as he reaches into his desk drawer and produces my wand, but once it's back in my hand I'm almost willing to forget the whole thing even happened.

Snape feels no such inclination. "I hope you have learned your lesson, Miss Linese." His lank, greasy hair conceals most of his face except his long, beaky nose, and that's what I focus on to avoid having to meet his eyes.

"Yes, sir," I answer woodenly.

He inclines his head. "Repeat it for me."

Not having had a specific lesson in mind when I gave my answer, I have to stop for a moment and think. "Don't leave my things unattended around people I don't trust."

"No, I don't think that's it at all," he corrects softly. I frown without meaning to. "Oh no. I think the point is much closer to 'I shall respect my betters and control my savage instincts'."

I nod stiffly.

"Repeat it."

I do, though my mouth tastes foul.

"Very well. You may go."

My only consolation is that I smell horrible. Flobberworm guts are the most malodorous material I have ever encountered, and I have it all over my hands and arms. In fact, the first time I ever encountered the stuff at Mr. Mulpepper's Apothecary in the Alley when I was thirteen, I nearly fainted. I stink so badly now that when I encounter Mrs. Norris on the second floor, she takes one whiff of me and sprints in the other direction. My smile is grim. This will be a pleasant revenge to wreak on my dear darling dorm-mates.

It's everything I hoped it would be. After trailing my noxious scent through the common room and causing several people to gag, I find I'm grinning quite broadly and hoping everyone will be up in our room, an unusual feeling for me. The second I step in the door, pandemonium breaks loose. India shrieks and falls off her bed where she had been braiding Alexandra's hair, Rosemary lunges for the window only to be met by Alexandra's suddenly hissing cat, and Kay's voice is heard to echo from the lav: "OH MY GOD! WHAT IS THAT!?"

The only inducement that convinces me to shower that night is Edgar, as even he won't come within six feet of me, so I eventually bathe and change clothes before starting homework and going to bed. We sleep with all the windows open, but the room still smells bad the next morning. It seemed to cling to the fabric of the curtains on our four-posters, and my fingernails, somehow.

I keep my head down over the next week. The Flobberworm smell slowly fades from the skin of my hands and the cloth in our dorm, and I make extra-sure to keep my wand on my person at all times, even during the night, though I become scared of snapping it in my sleep and stop after two nights. I do not approach Mad-Eye again, and he pays me no special attention. Having grown up to no special attention anyway, the attitude does not bother me.

That Thursday, Professor McGonagall holds me back after class.

"I hear, Miss Linese, that you have succeeded in setting a record for earliest detention of the year," she says wryly, polishing her glasses. "Quite impressive."

"Really?" I say, not really interested, but mildly surprised. "I'm surprised the Weasley twins don't make it a point of pride to win that every year."

"It was a near thing," she acknowledges. "But that's not why you're here at the moment."

"Yes, ma'am," I agree after a long pause indicates she wants some response.

"Have you given more thought to your plans to apply to the Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages? When we last spoke you seemed enamored of the idea."

"I still am, Professor. I'd like to go there." I'm not lying: languages are my true talent and it makes sense to foster that as much as possible. And it's as good a way as any to make enough of a fortune so that I'm in a position to help kids like me. Professor Babbling already has me helping with her professional work, and I'm credited as a collaborator on at least one of her articles from last year. It should be fairly easy to build on that, particularly after attaining a certificate from the Euro-Glyph School.

She nods. "I have taken the liberty of ordering an application packet for you." She lifts a copy of yesterday's _Daily Prophet_ from her cluttered desk and selects a glossy folder from the stack of papers beneath. **MATERIALS FOR THE APPLICATION OF ENTRY TO THE EURO-GLYPH SCHOOL OF EXTRAORDINARY LANGUAGES**, the cover declares. I can read it clearly, even upside down.

"There are three main steps in the application process," she begins in a lecturing tone, and I settle in for a long stay. I don't have a class during this block, but I had been hoping to get a jump on the Charms homework. Apparently not. "Firstly, there is the written application, detailing your experiences in linguistics and previous education on languages in general. You will need to include at least four references and three written essays, all in different languages. The essays, not the references, you understand. You will need to arrange a time for a face-to-face interview. I presume your Christmas holiday will make the most sense for that. Your written application is due three weeks before the interview to ensure they have adequate time to prepare for you. After a suitable time during which they will review their impressions of you based on that interview and what your application presents, they will invite you to a second interview at which point they will let you know whether you have been accepted or not. All of this is in the folder, of course—"

I wonder crossly why she felt the need to go over all of it for me if that's the case.

"—and you have plenty of time to peruse it all. I have no doubt you will be fine, considering everything Filius and Bathsheda have said of you." I blink. My professors talk about me? I don't know why the idea of gossiping teachers never occurred to me before, but I find it strangely hilarious. Professor McGonagall misinterprets my smile. "Yes Miss Linese, you have every reason to be proud of your skills, but take care not to grow vain of them. It's amongst the few characteristic pitfalls of our House, and something I take every opportunity to discourage."

"Yes, Professor."

She looks at me for a moment, which is long enough for me to grow uncomfortable. But she breaks the silence before I can ask if she wants me to leave. "Aside from your plans for the future shaping up nicely, how have you been, Linese?"

"Uh. Fine, Professor. Classes are going, um, well."

"Paying no mind to the detention bit, I'm sure." Her lips form a small smile. "How is news of the Tournament sitting with the student body?"

"You can't hear about anything else," I say, rolling my eyes. There's really no way to overstate the excitement of Hogwarts about hosting the Triwizard Tournament. "All anyone talks about is what the Tournament will involve, and what the other schools will be like and who ought to submit themselves."

"Has anyone reached a consensus on that point yet?" she asks curiously.

"Most everyone plans to submit themselves. Gideon, Isaac, and Wendell will for sure, and Rosemary most likely too, and Alexandra because she does whatever Rosemary does. I heard Bole and Ingle and Rite talking about it in Charms, and Ash and Balassi got caught passing notes about it. I mean, practically everyone who's seventeen is going for it."

"Are you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'm surprised to hear you sounding so definite this early in the process."

"Conviction comes from the gut," I reply stoutly. "If your gut isn't behind your decision, you won't stand by it. I don't trust people who deliberate too long."

"A fair philosophy. But remember also that it is wise to reconsider when new information presents itself. You have no idea what the Tournament will entail."

I shrug. "No ma'am. But until I do, I stand by my decision."

"Excellent, Miss Linese. Hurry along now, I'm sure you have work to do." She hands me the glossy folder full of the Euro-Glyph application and I take it hastily, tucking it under my arm.

"Yes, professor. See you next week."

"Enjoy your day, Miss Linese."

I shake my head as I leave the classroom. I have what I would call a good working relationship with Professor McGonagall, even though I'm rubbish at her subject, but her concern for my welfare is unprecedented. I wonder if there's anything behind her interest besides using the Euro-Glyph application as an excuse to pump me for gossip. Probably not.

I spend the rest of the morning before lunch perusing the Euro-Glyph application and deciding what languages I want to write my essays in. Unfortunately, being able to speak languages easily has nothing to do with being able to write in that language, so I'm restricted to English, runes of various types, and very limited French or Gobbledegook. The interview will have to be my strongest selling point. If I can get the interviewer to speak to me in a language I don't know, I can prove firsthand how my talent works. Though, they might think I lied about not knowing the language previously… And the references are another problem. I'm reasonably sure I can ask Professors Flitwick and Babbling since I've worked with them extensively. Otherwise, I might be able to convince Professor McGonagall. She says she has heard of my progress from the other two… As for a fourth, I'm completely stumped.

But I have 'til Christmas holiday to figure it out. In the meantime, there's the much more immediate issue of the Charms homework.

Over the next six weeks, Hogwarts undergoes a thorough cleaning. Cobwebs that haven't been disturbed in fifty years suddenly find themselves swept down from their corners, tapestries encrusted with filth are beaten till they look like new, suits of armour long since rusted over gleam once more. Filch becomes a maniac about mud tracked in on shoes. Even the other teachers, ones who I've never seen with so much as a hair out of place, seem frazzled and edgy. Flitwick gives the first detention I've ever known him to give, though the recipient, Isaac, wasn't behaving any worse than usual. I get another detention, this one from some poncy sixth year Prefect who saw me use a Full Body Bind Hex on Gideon. She _hadn't_ seen him jinx me first, but told me that retaliation was no good reason to lash out when I tried to make her see reason. She wouldn't give him one just on my say-so either, so he got off scot-free. My language talent does not mean I communicate well, but I prefer to blame her for being an annoying twat.

It's mid-October when the weather takes a turn for the chilly, but it holds off from snowing. And so, before I even quite know it, October 30th is upon us.

**A/N**

**I'm firmly of the mind that McGonagall considers her students her children, and that she has favorites. I'm also firmly of the mind that Snape is a dick. **

**I also think it's worth saying here that a lot of this will be about Nita coming to terms with the abuse she's had in her past. Her confusion about McGonagall's interest in her, and acceptance of Snape's wildly unfair punishment, are characteristics of coping mechanisms she's going to have to work through throughout the story. **

**Chapter 4, "A Fourth", will go up next Tuesday!  
**

**All characters (except for mine) are owned by JK Rowling, Warner Bros, etc.  
**

**E.I. signing out**


	4. Champion

**When dialogue is enclosed in regular "quotation marks", the language being spoken is English. When dialogue is enclosed in ^up carets^, the language being spoken is French (the doc manager won't let me use side carets. I am displeased about this.). As other languages are spoken throughout the story I'll let you know how to identify them, though I'll do my best to make it clear in the narration as well.**

_Chapter 4 – A Fourth_

The evening of the thirtieth finds the entire student body plus professors gathered outside the school, grouped roughly into lines. I wind up in a gaggle of third years a couple rows below the rest of my peers, but at least that means I can see everything. The lake and the forest stretch away in front of us, gilded by the golden sun and ruffled by the breeze. The wind is a bit stiff and chill actually, and I'm glad I decided to leave Edgar up in the Tower. He doesn't do well with the cold anymore. The professors range among us, snapping last minute critiques of our appearances as the sun sinks below the horizon. The moon already hangs above the Forest, looking almost gauzy against the dark blue velvet sky. It's quite pretty, actually.

"Miss Linese," Professor McGonagall barks, causing me to jump since I hadn't seen her coming. "Your hair resembles a giant golden cotton ball; do attempt to tamp it down before the other schools arrive!" She sweeps away towards a group of rowdy Hufflepuffs. I scowl after her and run a hand over my hair. It's just a little fluffy, no need to get in a twit about it… It's not like the other schools are going to be looking at my hair anyway.

Fidgets and whispers flit through the crowd. A group of Ravenclaws on my left theorize about how the other schools will arrive, when Dumbledore suddenly called from the back, "Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!"

"Where?" several people demand as everyone cranes their head in a different direction. Then a blond Slytherin girl shouts "_There!_" and everyone's heads whip around to look where the arm is pointing. I find myself staring at a patch of dim sky above the Forest, where something enormous is hurtling down towards us.

"It's a dragon!" screeches a first year in the row below me, making my ears ring.

I recognize the boy next to her from the Sorting, Dennis Creevey, who retorts "Don't be stupid… it's a flying house!"

Squinting, I see that he is very nearly right. As the object barrels closer and brushes over the tops of the tall trees of the Forest, I see that it is an enormous powder-blue carriage, pulled by a dozen elephant-sized flying horses. The front three rows back up hurriedly as the carriage comes in for landing at an incredible speed and crashes to the earth. For a moment it looks as though the carriage would overturn, but it settles properly onto its four wheels as the horses slow to a canter and then a full stop, tossing their glossy manes and snorting steam. As one of the closer students, I see clearly the insignia blazoned on the door before it springs open: two crossed golden wands, each emitting three silver stars. It makes sense: 'beau' means beautiful, and 'baton' means wand (it translates literally to 'stick', but the implication is clear). In true French fashion, they are focused more on aesthetics than anything. I snort quietly to myself as a boy in blue robes that match the carriage itself jumps to the ground and fumbles with a set of folding stairs, which he eventually gets to extend from the carriage door to the ground, at which point he hops backwards and stands up straight.

Then a foot extends onto the stairs, a foot as big as two dustbin lids together, in a black, shiny, high-heeled shoe. My jaw drops open as the rest of the person steps down onto the lawn. She is HUGE. She can't be an inch shorter than Hagrid! But unlike Hagrid, she wears her bulk gracefully. She is dressed all in black satin with opals adorning her neck and fingers, and as she steps forward into the light from the doors open to the Entrance Hall, I see her face is handsome and tanned.

Someone from the back—probably Dumbledore or one of the other teachers—slowly begins to clap, and everyone else soon joins in. The woman relaxes and her lips form a smile. Each and every eye follows her as she strides forward to Dumbledore, extending a hand the size of a dinner plate. Tall though the Headmaster is, he barely has to bend to kiss it. They have a short conversation which I am too far away to overhear, but at the end of it she gives an imperious gesture back to the carriage, and I notice that a dozen or so people, all about my age, are standing around shivering in their blue robes. No wonder: they look like pajamas, and they're not even wearing cloaks. At their professor's indication, they file along through the crowd of Hogwarts students, some glancing nervously back and forth, self-conscious and awkward, while others look straight ahead, proud. A quick count tells me that of the twelve Beauxbaton students, eight are girls and four boys. I wonder what the Durmstrang distribution will be as the French guests disappear into the castle.

Silence settles back over the grounds as we wait for the other school to arrive. It's downright cold now, and my burn smarts even under the sweater and cloak. Plus, I'm getting hungry.

Several long minutes pass before someone says "Do you hear something?" and I realize I do. It's a weird, wet sucking, like when I had to feed raw clams to a tank full of Hinkypunks at the Magical Menagerie back at the Alley a few years ago. Only the sound was about a hundred times bigger now.

"The lake!" Lee Jordan shouted, voice trained to carry by several years of announcing Quidditch games. "Look at the lake!"

From our vantage, we have a perfect view of the lake's smooth black surface—which is no longer smooth, and only somewhat black. Right out in the middle, the water seems to be boiling. Or if not boiling, at least bubbling, causing ripples and waves to lap at the muddy shores. I stare in fascination as a whirlpool forms, and a tall, dark pole starts to extend upwards out of it. But attached to it are lots of ropes and a crossbeam of some sort, and—_sails?_

Someone behind me gasps "It's a mast!" and I see they're right. It's not only a mast either, it's a whole bloody ship that pops out of our lake! It's a grand, majestic thing, and the water pouring off the decks in the moonlight lends it an eerie, austere air. The glowing portholes are like pale eyes on some great beast, come to terrorize the poor squid.

During my examination, it glides forward and drops anchor, and a plank now extends down to the shore. Figures are marching down it, all burly and big-shouldered from what I can tell. They build them sturdy in… wherever Durmstrang is. I search through the word for meaning and source, coming up with. Nothing much. The German phrase 'sturm und drang' is the closest I can rustle up, which isn't very helpful. They're from someplace cold, at least, where lots of body fat is a necessary. But as they troop up the lawn towards us, I see that they're not actually that big: they're just wearing thick, rugged fur cloaks. If the French students were underdressed, these Durmstrangers have overdone it. I count no more than two or three girls among the twelve of them, and there is no differentiation of uniform.

The man in front is different though. He wears sleek, silver fur that matches his hair, and his voice is oily and drips smarm as he calls out "Dumbledore! How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?" I wrinkle my nose at him. Spending most of my time in shops for the last six summers has given me the ability to read people by little more than their vocal tone and facial expression, and this man puts me off.

Dumbledore either feels differently or is better at hiding it than I would be. "Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff."

Karkaroff's voice carries in a way Beauxbaton's headmistress' hadn't, so I can still hear their conversation once the Durmstrang professor joins Dumbledore by the great front doors. "Dear old Hogwarts. How good it is to be here, how good… Viktor, come along, into the warmth… You don't mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold…"

He motions one of his students forward, and I see a pair of thick black eyebrows over a heavy nose set on a frowning profile before he passes me. His face strikes me as weirdly familiar, but it's not till a wave of susurrus whispers breaks over me that I recognize him properly.

"_Viktor Krum!"_

"_It's _Krum_!"_

"—_Krum? Still in school?"_

"…_so young?"_

I would have seen him in the newspaper, of course, after the World Cup, and on posters at Quality Quidditch Supplies.

The whole crowd of Hogwarts students compresses into a blob half its previous size to see Krum into the school, and I find myself distressingly near my dormmates.

"Merlin's hat!" Rosemary squeals once the Durmstrang group has filed past. "He is GORGEOUS! I had no idea he was so young! Do you think he'd go out with us if we asked?" I fail to withhold a snort. She turns to glare at me. "What Nita, do you think _you_ have a better chance?" India and Alexandra giggle.

I shrug. "Not really, no. But I heard there were Veela cheerleaders at the World Cup. Think you have a better chance than them?"

She scowls at me ferociously and turns to flounce into the castle with the rest of the school. I follow, rolling my eyes. Really, he's not even that attractive. His eyebrows are thick and heavy, his nose is wide, he slouches, and he walks duck-footed. And if Karkaroff's solicitous treatment of him is anything to go by, he has let fame get much too settled in his head. But I never expect sense from Rosemary.

The Durmstrang delegation goes to sit with the Slytherins (smashing Rosemary's hopes, no doubt) and the Beauxbaton group is over with Ravenclaw, blues sticking with blues, so we have no less elbow room than usual at the Gryffindor table. I sit at the very end just below the teachers' table, noting Filch as he puts two extra chairs in on either side of Dumbledore's. I wonder idly who the extra two will be for. One for sneaky Karkaroff and Massive Maxime (a moniker I overheard, given by a second year who thought he was clever), but otherwise… well, we'd find out soon enough, no doubt. I turn my attention away, hoping Dumbledore's welcome speech won't go on for _too_ long. I'm starving.

Just then the teachers file in from the side and start taking their seats. As soon as Madam Maxime appears, her students leap to their feet, eliciting giggles from some of their hosts, which they ignore. They remain standing until their Headmistress sits, and soon Dumbledore is the only one left standing in the Hall. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and—most particularly—guests," he says, beaming around at the gathered studentry, especially the foreign ones. "I have great pleasure in welcoming all of you to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable."

One of the Beauxbaton girls, who has, oddly, a scarf wrapped around her head, laughs derisively. My attitude towards the French students sours dramatically.

"The Tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast," Dumbledore continues, ignoring the laugh. "I now invite you to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!" He sits down and the plates fill. The food is even more sumptuous than usual, and a lot of it looks foreign. I take helpings of everything I can reach and spend several minutes munching happily. Between the pub and Bigby, my summers aren't hungry, but the food tends to be…lackluster. That's never a problem at Hogwarts. I am digging into some kind of delicious roasted pumpkin and walnut dish when someone taps my shoulder. I turn and am surprised to find that it is Viktor Krum of the large nose and thick eyebrows. Several third years across the table stare in open-mouthed wonder. Thinking to give him a better impression of Hogwarts than those idiots, I say clearly, "Yes?"

"Could I haff the cheverme?" he asks in thickly accented English.

"Certainly," I reply, gesturing broadly to the table since I have no idea what he means.

"Thanks you," he says, reaching for a large roasted-looking chicken to the right of my plate.

"Enjoy supper," I tell him, and he nods and walks away with the bird. As soon as he's out of earshot, the third-years bombard me with exclamations and reprimands, mainly centered on the idea that I should have asked him to sit down so we could win his allegiance from the Slytherins. I ignore all of it and take more of the pumpkin walnut thing.

A short time later, two men enter from a side door by the teacher's table and take the seats left vacant next to Karkaroff and Maxime. One is old, thin, and pale, wearing long dark robes and a bowler hat, with a slim moustache and a nervous face. He sits by Madam Maxime. The other man, who seats himself next to Karkaroff, holds my attention for some reason. He is chubby, verging on fat, with golden hair perfectly moulded into shape and a gleaming smile. He has blue eyes, a squashed nose that looks like it might have once been straight and strong, and plump, fishlike lips. But it's not any of that which holds my eye. Something about him just… irks me. But since I am unable to pin it down, I put the blond man out of my mind.

After another course of puddings and desserts, the scant leftovers disappear from the golden plates, and Dumbledore stands up again. The entire Hall goes silent. Well-fortified with food and drink, I don't mind that this speech promises to be much more long-winded.

"The moment has come," he declares, smiling around. His voice is not loud, but it has no problem carrying. "The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket—" I raise my eyebrows "—just to clarify the procedure which we will be following this year." He takes a second to look around, as if ensuring that we all understand. It's moments like these that I can easily believe Dumbledore was once a regular teacher like Professor Sprout or Professor McGonagall. "But firstly, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Co-Operation," He indicates the darkly dressed man, and there is polite applause. "…and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports." Louder applause meets the blond man's introduction, and I wonder why. He reacts with a jaunty wave and a grin, where Mr. Crouch had merely sat there. It's obviously no contest of personality. "Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament, and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madam Maxime on the panel which will judge the champions' efforts." Every ear in the Hall perks up at Dumbledore's mention of champions, including mine. Sensing this, Dumbledore smiles. "The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch."

Filch, whom I had not noticed in the far corner of the Hall, now comes forward, toting an impressive, ancient-looking crate, covered with precious gems that shine in the candle-light. An eager buzz goes through the Hall, everyone sitting up as straight as possible to get a glimpse.

"The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman," Dumbledore goes on as Filch struggles up to the teacher's table and sets the crate before the Headmaster. "And they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways… their magical prowess – their daring – their powers of deduction – and, of course, their ability to cope with danger."

The crowd of students goes absolutely still. Even the stupid laughing French girl is paying proper attention now.

"As you know, three champions compete in the Tournament: one from each of the participating schools. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector… the Goblet of Fire."

At this, Dumbledore removes his wand from an inner pocket and taps thrice upon the casket lid. It swings slowly open, and whatever glows within lights the headmaster's face from below, making him momentarily skeletal. But then he reaches within the box and draws out a rough-hewn wooden cup. There would have been nothing so very special about it, had it not been brim full of flickering, blue-white flame. Carefully, Dumbledore closes the casket lid again and places the Cup on top of it where the whole Hall can see. Since I'm seated so close to the teacher's table, I have a particularly good view.

"Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment, and drop it into the Goblet," Dumbledore explains. "Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Hallowe'en, the Goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The Goblet will be placed in the Entrance Hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete.

"To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation," he goes on, eyes glinting merrily, "I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the Entrance Hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line.

"Finally…" He lowers his voice dramatically. Good old Dumbledore is never above a bit of showmanship. "I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this Tournament is not to be entered lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obligated to see the Tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the Goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play, before you drop your name into the Goblet." He gives a very stern look around. Then, with a sudden cheerful tone, "Now, I think it is time for bed. Goodnight to you all."

At this, everyone rises to their feet, conversations and arguments beginning spontaneously as to who ought to submit themselves and what the tasks would likely consist of now that we have a little more information. Across the table from me, the third years are bemoaning their luck that they aren't old enough to participate while simultaneously positioning themselves to support the person they thought most likely to put their name forward and be selected. All across the Hall, in fact, small nuclei of students are forming, each with a possible champion at its heart. I see that burly Slytherin Quidditch player, Warrington or something, surrounded by supporters, and the Hufflepuff Seeker (or was he a Chaser?) Diggory. I don't care about any of the politics. The number of supporters an entrant has has little and less to do with whether they'll be selected by the Goblet of Fire. If it had been a silent vote by the student body, popularity would have mattered, but as it stands, I have as good a chance as any of the others.

Once I get back to Gryffindor Tower, I go straight up to bed rather than hang about in the common room. There's a fury of gossip and speculation already brewing, but I know I'll hear more than I want before the day is out tomorrow. I spend the evening quietly with Edgar, who chirped reprovingly at me for taking so long to bring him dinner. I fall asleep feeling surprisingly content, with my little best friend curled up in the crook of my neck.

Since the next day is Saturday and the teachers had been too frazzled to assign much homework, I take out my Euro-Glyph application and start thinking seriously about my essays. The English one will be easy, and the Runes one fairly simple as well, but choosing between French and Gobbledegook for the third had become a headache. I know French better, but Gobbledegook would be more impressive, I feel, and Flitwick would be an easy resource. Chewing crankily on a hangnail, I stuff everything into my school bag and head down into the castle proper.

The Goblet of Fire has moved into the Entry Hall since last night, and a thin golden line around it holds back the gaggle of spectators that has formed to see who puts their name in. I pull a rumpled bit of parchment out of my pocket. I tore it off an old Charms assignment and added 'Hogwarts' underneath my name last night. I approach the Goblet of Fire, ignoring the audience as I cross the Age Line. The fire doesn't seem to radiate heat as I reach towards it and feed it my slip of paper. It only pulses brighter for a moment before going back to its former calm simmer. As I turn to go, I see the Durmstrang delegation coming in the large main doors, Karkaroff and Krum in the lead. On impulse, I decide to stay and watch them submit instead of going straight to the library. If I'm chosen, I'll want to know my competition. Krum is the first to step up to the Goblet. I watch him carefully, trying to see if I should revise last night's opinion of him. His posture is worse than I had realized last night because of the furs, but I don't know what that should make me think. What I am thinking is that it's telling that he does not make eye contact with anyone, when all of a sudden he does. And there's no mistaking who he's looking at. His eyes are dark under his heavy brows, unreadable. Our gazes are not locked for more than a second, but my heart clenches in an unfamiliar way and I leave the Entry Hall at a fast trot when he turns aside. Plenty of time to get to know the competition during the Tournament itself.

Even though I sequester myself in the library, rumors seep into my awareness. It seems that several students attempted to use Ageing Potions to get past the Line, the result of which was swift rebuttal and the growth of impressive beards, regardless of the gender of the transgressor. Definite favorites were popping up among those who had submitted themselves: most of Hufflepuff was behind Diggory, though some supported Eric Faulkner in my year. Warrington and Flint were strong Slytherin contenders, though Ingle, Pike, and Kilton seemed just as likely to me. Ravenclaw seemed split fairly evenly between the sixth year Prefect Andrew Leyborn and Arabella Minden, a girl in my year I have no reason to dislike. As for Gryffindor… well. As I had predicted to Professor McGonagall, nearly everyone of age chose to submit their names. Kay and Amar stayed out of it, as did India. Several sixth-years were above-age too, but a result of having so many entrants is that no clear preferred champion has appeared.

Eventually, I get so irritated by the whispers flying around the library that I get up and go back to Gryffindor Tower for the rest of the day. I spend it in the common room with Edgar, trying and mostly failing to answer the question "How do you intend to shape your study of languages?" for the Euro-Glyph application. Answering inane questions like this is like beating my head against a brick wall, but it's a necessary evil.

I'm crossing out "cross-cultural communication can only be served and enhanced by a strong understanding of idioms" when I realize that the common room is empty and that everyone else has gone down to the feast. Muttering curses both general and specific, I hurry Edgar and my application materials upstairs to the dorm before racing down through the castle to the Great Hall. I arrive panting behind a few tardy Hufflepuffs and slide onto the bench at the very end of Gryffindor table. The feast is already in full swing, and I pile my plate high, realizing as I do that I've missed lunch. Stupid Krum, putting my off my stride like that.

I still manage to become comfortably full before the plates clear themselves of scraps, and I give in to the impatience radiating from all directions. The teachers all look very small from this far away, and I have to crane my head to see the Goblet at all, which has been returned to its spot in front of Dumbledore. A moment later, the man himself stands up, quelling the rising tide of noise effortlessly. He appears calm, unlike Karkaroff and Maxime, who are as tense and expectant as the next person. I notice Mr. Bagman twiddling his fingers and winking at students, and I scoff to myself before turning my attention back to Dumbledore.

"Well, the Goblet is almost ready to make a decision," he says gravely. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber—" he gestures to a door behind the staff table. "—where they will be receiving their first instructions."

He draws his wand and describes a wide sweeping gesture, and all the candles in the Hall extinguish themselves, except the ones in the gigantic jack-o-lanterns. The whitish-blue flames of the Goblet are the brightest thing in the room. I watch it intently, even though the flickering flames hurt to look at for too long. After a few moments, the Goblet spits sparks and a long tongue of red flame flicks out. A singed bit of parchment flutters off from the tip, and Dumbledore reaches out and catches it.

"The champion from Durmstrang," he calls, holding the paper out near the fire so he could read, "will be Viktor Krum."

I roll my eyes as Krum gets up from the Slytherin table and makes his way up towards the teacher's table. "BRAVO VIKTOR!" Karkaroff roars over the thunder of applause and cheering. "Knew you had it in you!" Krum doesn't acknowledge his headmaster's approval, and the clapping fades out as he disappears into the antechamber. The Hall fastens its attention on the Goblet again. The tongue of red flame licks out and Dumbledore plucks the slip of paper out of the air.

"The champion from Beauxbaton is Fleur Delacour!" I look to Ravenclaw's table to see which girl stands up, and am disgusted to discover that it is the one who laughed at the welcome feast. The Goblet gets no points for taste, that much is certain.

Loud applause follows Fleur out of the Great Hall (and many of the boys' eyes follow in a much more particular way), but silence returns more swiftly than before, except for a couple other French girls sobbing quietly. The Hogwarts champion is next. The tongue of red flame licks out a third time and Dumbledore catches the slip of paper.

"Come on," Gideon whispers, wringing his hands a few spaces down the table.

"Be me," Isaac begs.

"And the Hogwarts Champion is…" The Great Hall holds its collective breath. "Nita Linese!" The applause that follows the moment of silence is haphazard and confused, and seems loud by obligatory school loyalty rather than true excitement. I can see many people turn to their neighbors and mouth "_Who?"_ as they clap. I don't care. I stand from Gryffindor table, ignoring the open-mouthed stares of my dorm mates and the hostile glares of those others who had entered, Angelina Johnson, Warrington, and Diggory among them. The Goblet chose me, so I am the champion, and their disdain does nothing to change that. I pace the length of the Hall and follow Krum and Delacour into the antechamber. There is a crackling fire going in the hearth embedded in the right-hand wall, next to which both of my fellow champions stand. They both look up as I come in, and Krum's eyes flicker while Delacour's mouth forms the smallest of frowns.

"Ah," he says. "Cheverme girl."

"My name is Nita Linese," I correct him firmly. "Pleasure to meet you." I stretch a hand forward. He shakes it, and his hand is thickly callused from years on a broom, and very warm. I avoid meeting his eyes, determined to escape the weird lurching heart he gave me earlier.

I turn to Delacour, stifling distaste. In rusty French, I say, ^We haven't met. I hope you have found Hogwarts to your liking.^

Her blue eyes widen further. ^You speak French?^

^A little,^ I say, but then switch to English for Krum's sake, as he looks very confused. "I was fluent a few years ago, but I have let it lapse since coming to school here."

"Zis is too bad." She clicks her tongue. "French is ze most beautiful language." Ethnocentrism aside, I hate to agree. "It is vairy cold 'ere at 'ogwarts. I do not find it to my taste at all."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say sincerely. "I look forward to the day when we can treat our guests with the dignity and hospitality they deserve." She beams down at me toothily, her already beautiful face transforming into loveliness. "And likewise, they their hosts." Her smile freezes as she catches the ice in my tone. I raise my eyebrows at her. She draws herself up as if to make some retort, but instead simply turns on her heel and stomps past the fire to an armchair, into which she flings herself, if flinging could imply the utmost grace. Perhaps this is why Isaac and Gideon say I ought to go into politics: I'm good at making enemies. Krum stands between us, obviously unsure of what has just happened.

Then Harry Potter walks in. All three of us look up at him as he comes in, seeming a little dazed around the edges.

"What is it?" Delacour snaps impatiently. "Do zey want us back in ze Hall?" That's optimistic, to say the least.

Potter opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, looking helpless. I narrow my eyes. This doesn't bode well.

The sound of footsteps reaches our ears, and Mr. Bagman hurries in, slightly out of breath. "Extraordinary!" he mutters, grabbing Potter's elbow and dragging him forward. "Absolutely extraordinary! Dear sir and ladies," he says more loudly, approaching the fireplace. "My I introduce—incredible though it may seem—the _fourth_ Triwizard champion?"

Just to my right, Krum comes out of his slouch, his scowl becoming more pronounced. I, on the other hand, stuff my hands in my pockets and lean against the wall. I think I know what they're about to say, and protesting won't stop it. Things with Potter tend to get inexorable.

Delacour doesn't know that. She stands up, tossing her slick silver blonde hair over her shoulder. "Oh, vairy funny joke, Meester Bagman." Her eyes are hard though.

Bagman looks puzzled. "Joke? No, no, not at all! Harry's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!"

I knew it.

Delacour frowns. She looks like she's used to getting her own way. Welcome to Hogwarts, love. "But evidently zair 'as been a mistake," she tells Bagman. "'E cannot compete. 'E is too young."

"Well," Bagman wavers, rubbing his hairless chin and smiling down at the silent Potter. "It is amazing. But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as his name's come out of the Goblet… I mean, I don't think there can be any ducking out at this stage… it's down in the rules, you're obliged… Harry will just have to do the best he—"

The door bursts open, saving Bagman from his own incoherence. No one who comes in looks happy. Dumbledore is in the lead, Mr. Crouch close behind, then Professor Karkaroff and Madam Maxime, with Professors McGonagall and Snape bringing up the rear. The conversations from the Hall are heard as a loud buzzing, mixed with the scraping of chairs and benches as everyone gets up to leave. Professor McGonagall closes the door swiftly behind herself and cuts off the noise.

"Madame Maxime!" Delacour breaks the silence immediately, hurrying over to her enormous Headmistress. "Zey are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!"

I tune out. This is my prediction: everyone's going to make a lot of noise and protest about Potter competing and he's going to have to do it anyway. Personally, all it means is that I'll have a third opponent rather than only two, and Potter is three years younger than us. My chances of beating him are statistically good. Still, it is annoying. I'm not doing this for the fame (the fortune part is more what I'm interested in), but I am supposed to be the champion representing Hogwarts. Potter's rich and famous enough as he is.

The door opens again and I see Professor Moody come in. He growls something at Karkaroff, and I tune back in and catch up by context. Potter's denying he put his name in, of course, and Maxime and Karkaroff are making a huge scene about it. All just as I said would happen. Moody and Karkaroff appear to be getting heated, and Bagman has dropped out of the conversation, and is sidling in my direction.

"Good evening," he says when he reaches me, sounding almost apprehensive for some reason. "Did I catch your name correctly? Linese, was it?"

I frown faintly at him. "Yes."

"Ah, yes, wonderful, yes, hm. Muggle-born, I suppose?"

"Yes…" I say after a long moment of confusion.

"Yes, well, that could work against you, you know."

I turn and face him properly, crossing my arms over my chest. "And why exactly do you say that, Mr. Bagman?"

"Oh, er, nothing, Miss, er, Linese, but everyone knows they have less natural, er, talent…"

Over Bagman's shoulder, I see Professor McGonagall giving the pair of us a very strange look. I try to indicate that I'd love a hand getting out of this predicament, but she doesn't seem to get it. So I turn my attention back to the overweight judge. He reminds me a little of Lockheart actually, with the coifed golden hair and the big beaming smile. My view of him dims appropriately.

"I hope my performance in the Tournament isn't going to be based on my blood, sir," I say coldly. "I always believed the measure of any person was his accomplishments, not his birth."

"Well, of course, Miss Linese, of course, I'm merely communicating a sentiment you'll have to watch out for." He wipes his round, sweaty face with a big hankie. I wrinkle my nose.

"I've been in the magical world for over six years, sir. I've had a taste of the sorts of nonsense prejudices that get bandied about."

"A-ha, yes, well, hem…" He doesn't so much end the conversation as simply drift away from it, shuffling off to rejoin the Potter discussion. I frown after him, totally at a loss. I feel a touch on my shoulder and flinch away instinctively, only calming down once I see it's Professor McGonagall.

"What did he say to you?" she asks, something more than curiosity in her voice.

"Mr. Bagman kindly informed me that I would have to watch out for prejudice against Muggle-borns among the judges," I say flatly.

Her lips thin and for some reason she sends a look at Karkaroff. "Truer than I'd like it to be, unfortunately," she murmurs. "Anything else?"

"No," I reply, puzzled. "Should he have?"

"He shouldn't have said anything at all. But are you su—"

She is cut off by Bagman declaring to the room at large, "Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't we? Barty, want to do the honours?"

Mr. Crouch is standing with his back to the fire, and his eyes have to come back from a long way off. "Yes," he says absently. "Instructions. Yes… the first task…" He moves further into the firelight. Seeing him at closer proximity than across the crowded Great Hall, I see he looks sallow, and there are deep bags beneath his eyes. I wonder if he's quite well. But he's an adult. Adults take care of themselves. He addresses Potter, Krum, Delacour, and myself. "The first task is designed to test your daring so we are not going to be telling you what it is." I raise my eyebrows. Unexpected. "Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard… very important… The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth in front of the other students and the panel of judges." He gestures somewhat listlessly to Bagman and the three heads of the schools. "Champions are not allowed to ask or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks. The champions will face the first task armed only with their wand. They will receive information about the second task when the first task is over. Owing to the demanding, time-consuming nature of the Tournament, the champions are exempt from the end-of-year tests." He turns to look at Dumbledore while I consider his last sentence. Final exams canceled? Does that mean my N.E.W.T.s? "I think that's all, is it, Albus?"

"I think so," Dumbledore replies, giving Crouch a searching look. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts, Barty?"

I look up at Professor McGonagall. "Will I still have to take my Newts?" I ask, caught between hope and worry.

"Yes," she says promptly. "They are overseen by the Ministry. But your class exams will be canceled. And it's possible we may be able to bring an outside examiner in to see one or two of the challenges, which may count for the practical portions."

I nod. It's a better deal than I was expecting, at any rate. The sound of French catches my ear, and I focus on it long enough to hear Madam Maxime saying something about 'weighting the scales' and 'all the help you can get' to Delacour before the door shuts them out. Karkaroff and Krum likewise leave, though without speaking.

"Harry, Nita, I suggest you go up to bed," says Dumbledore, smiling down at us. I blink. The headmaster has never so much as looked in my direction before. It's startling to be addressed so casually all of a sudden. "I am sure Gryffindor is waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise."

Potter glances at me and I jerk my chin to the door. We go into the silent Great Hall together, traversing the long tables and benches left askew.

"I didn't do it," he says abruptly when we are halfway up the marble staircase. "I didn't put my name in the Goblet."

It's a simple statement, so I respond simply: "Okay."

We fall into our own thoughts after that. I can guess what Potter's preoccupied about, but my mind swirls around the sparse information it has been furnished with. A test of daring… What can that possibly mean? Will we be facing off against ravening lions? Mr. Crouch said we will be in front of the rest of the school, so will it be some kind of spectator sport? Will we all be competing against each other, or individually? Individually seems the more likely option, but anything to do with likelihood or fairness flew out of the window when Mr. Crouch said we weren't to know what the task is going to be. Seven flights of stairs later, I'm no closer to an answer.

We are drawing near the Fat Lady when Harry speaks again, pulling me out of my thoughts. "You do believe me, don't you? About me not putting my name in?"

I stop and turn. He's a few paces behind me, looking very small and quite desperate.

I draw a deep breath. "I'll tell you the truth: I'm not happy about this. I intend to do my very best to win, and I don't mind if that means rolling over you if you get in the way. But…" I sigh, rubbing back and forth along my collar bone with two fingers. "If anyone was going to have their name entered without knowing it, it would be you. You get up to crazy stuff every year, so… yeah, I believe you."

He seems relieved to hear me say it. "Thanks. I just hope the rest of the school agrees."

"They won't," I tell him bluntly as we start walking towards the portrait hole.

"Yeah…" he says heavily, and we don't speak again until I give the Fat Lady the password (ignoring her and her gossipy friend Violet) and the portrait swings forward.

When Dumbledore said a 'great deal of mess and noise' I think he underestimated his old House's abilities. The sound that crashes out of the common room is enough to rattle my eardrums, and more hands than I have ever had on my in my life reach out and haul me and Potter into the common room. Every single Gryffindor student is gathered around us, screaming and clapping and pounding the floor. The Weasley twins accost Potter and drag him away into the throng while I am surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers of my own. Someone pushes a Butterbeer into my hands. Faces pass too quickly for me to recognize, congratulations are shouted at such volume and in such numbers that there is no way I can respond. Angelina Johnson shakes my hand enthusiastically, her anger from the feast apparently forgotten. "Good on you!" she shouts. "Do us Gryffindors proud, yeah?"

Others shake my hand, shouting at me until my head is throbbing. All I can see is a blur of grinning faces, which slowly seem to become snarls and grimaces. Even some of my year-mates, the ones who have consistently and thoroughly disliked me, appear with brittle smiles and shrill congratulations. Sycophants to the bone, the lot of them.

Abruptly, I feel dizzy and nauseous. The room is too hot and spinning. My chest hurts. I discover that at some point someone threw a Gryffindor banner across my shoulders, and I shrug it off so it puddles on the floor. I ignore the hands that push crisps and peanuts at me as I stagger for the girls' stairs, shoving my way past well-wishers. If I'm ill, I am not going to do it in front of my whole House. Especially not now that I am the champion. The dorm is dark and empty, of course, and much cooler. My stomach settles as soon as the door is shut behind me, blocking out the noise of the party below, but I still make my way to the bathroom and splash water on my face. It's several long minutes of leaning on the sink before my heart calms down. I look gaunt when I finally look up into the mirror. Moonlight from the dorm window shines in through the open loo door, casting queerly jagged shadows across my face. I look fierce and scary. I straighten my shoulders a little, even though it pulls my burn, and decide that this is the face I will wear on the twenty-fourth of November when I face the first challenge.

I climb into bed not a minute later, pulling Edgar close against my shoulder. He snuggles closer and purrs without waking all the way up, and I smile into the darkness. "I'm going to win," I whisper.

**A/N**

**As a far greater writer than I once said, "There is an art to the building up of suspense." We got some weirdness with Bagman, only had a little interaction with Viktor (and I'm really excited for them to start talking more), and what I think is the truest line about Harry Potter, the person, I've ever written. Inexorable indeed.  
**

**BTW there are 13 chapters in this story, so nine to go (and then an epilogue that I haven't finished and may or may not post, I'll have to see how I feel). **

**Chapter 5, "A Hint", will go up next Tuesday!  
**

**All characters (except for mine) are owned by JK Rowling, Warner Bros, etc.  
**

**E.I. signing out**


	5. A Hint

_Chapter 5 – A Hint_

One thing I did not anticipate about becoming champion was how everyone's attitude towards me would change. That night at the party, I put the enthusiasm of my fellow Gryffindors down to obligatory House loyalty rather than real interest, but as the days go on it does not wane. Students who have never noticed me before come up to me in the halls between classes or at meals to offer me congratulations and a fervent handshake. And Potter complicates things, as he tends to do. It all would have been very straight-forward if I had been the only Hogwarts champion: the school would support me and the Tournament would go on as it was designed. But Potter brings in politics. For example, I find a lot more Slytherins offering me their support than I expected. Even though we're both Gryffindors, they hate Potter more than me, so I get their support. The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws both seem to take the view that Potter is an attention-grabbing git and that I have been cheated out of my rightful place in the limelight—true, to some extent, though everyone else seems to feel much more strongly about it than I do. Of course Gryffindor is simply proud to be home of not one, but two Triwizard champions and loves us equally.

All in all, I find my new popularity tiring, and I seek solitude in the library or disused classrooms more and more frequently.

Not so very many days into November, however, something unavoidable finds me. It comes in the form of a second-year girl I don't know who knocks on Professor Babbling's door during my Monday tutorial with a great deal of self-assurance.

"Come in," Babbling calls, not looking up from the five dictionaries she is cross-referencing. I'm seated on the floor surrounded by notecards for three feet in all directions, creating an elaborate "meaning map". It's a thing Babbling is keen on. I think it's mind-numbingly confusing.

"I'm supposed to bring Nita," the girl announces clearly.

I flash a scowl at her familiar use of my name.

"She still has twenty minutes with me," Babbling says distractedly. "We're very busy right now."

"Yes Professor. But all the champions are supposed to come. It's something to do with the newspaper. Colin Creevey's gone to get Harry Potter."

Babbling frowns. She is usually a placid, cheerful woman, but one of her articles got turned down the other day and she's been off-colour since. "Very well then. Nita, for Thursday, complete your translation of the Voynich Manuscript."

"Yes, ma'am," I reply, standing carefully so as not to disturb the meaning map. I gather my bag and follow the girl out into the hall. She leads me at a smart pace, posture nearly militaristic. One of those ones who takes responsibility too seriously, by the evidence. Probably future Prefect. At such a smart clip, it takes only a few minutes for us to reach the proper place, which, I am surprised to see, is my favorite impromptu study room. I open the door as the girl leaves, and see that most of the desks have been pushed to the back except for three which are lined up under the blackboard and covered in a velvet drape. Delacour and Krum have already arrived, as well as Dumbledore and Bagman. Additionally, there is a curvaceous blonde witch with a crocodile skin handbag, a paunchy man with a big black camera, and, to my surprise, Mr. Ollivander from Diagon Alley. Conversation suspends momentarily as I come in: the blonde witch gives me a contemptuous look and goes back to talking to Bagman. Delacour pauses in her one-sided conversation with Krum long enough to give me a similar glance, then tosses her hair over her shoulder and ignores me. Professor Dumbledore gives me a cheery wave, which I am too surprised to return, but he and Mr Ollivander leave the room not two seconds later.

I still don't know what I'm doing here. I'm not about to ask Bagman or the crocodile-bag witch, who are deep in conversation. The photographer fellow is looking gormlessly at Delacour, being perfectly useless. I have heard rumors about the effect she has on boys, but I had thought them overblown until this moment. She is unmistakably different now, though for the life of me I can't tell how. Anyway, Krum looks about as interested as a brick wall. But they're my best bet.

I wait for Fleur to take a pause for breath, which requires almost a solid minute before asking, "What's going on?" She frowns down her nose at me.

"Eez eferyvun at 'Ogwarts so rude? Or deed ze Goblet choose you specifically beecoz you are zo good at eet?" she snaps.

^I'll be polite once you give me a reason to respect you, instead of just flirting with famous Quidditch players,^ I reply, irritation wrenching the French from deep in my mind and hurling it out at her without consulting common sense first.

Her eyes narrow. ^Of course _you_ had nothing of the sort in mind when you came over here.^ With this oh-so cutting remark, she flounces off towards Bagman and the crocodile-bag witch, pointedly looking at everything except me and Krum.

"So why are we here?" I ask, pitching my tone a little further towards politeness than is my wont.

Krum shifts nervously on his feet as I lean against the wall. "It is the vaying of the vands," is his eventual gruff reply.

Decoding his accent, I come up with 'weighing of the wands'. That must have to do with why Ollivander's here. But what does it actually mean?

Before I can ask, Potter walks in. Bagman spots him straight away, and hurtles out of his seat to usher him into the room. "Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come, Harry, in you come… nothing to worry about, it's just the Wand Weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges will be here in a moment—"

"Wand weighing?" Potter repeats, voicing my question exactly.

"We have to check that your wands are fully functional, no problems, you know, as they're your most important tool in the tasks ahead. The expert's upstairs now with Dumbledore." Well, that's all very straight-forward. Leave it to wizards to come up with something poncy and obtuse like 'wand weighing'. Bagman goes on: "And then there's going to be a little photo shoot. This is Rita Skeeter, she's doing a small piece for the _Daily Prophet…_"

"Maybe not _that_ small, Ludo…" Skeeter murmurs, eyeing Potter like a cat would a canary in a cage. I know Skeeter's reputation, though I've never read anything she's written. Madam Malkin takes a weird pleasure in reading her articles and then banging about in her kitchen, declaiming to the world at large that something is wrong, well and truly wrong, when someone can get away with publishing full-on slander with no repercussions.

"I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry before we start?" she says softly, not taking her eyes off the obviously nervous Potter. "The youngest champion, you know… to add a bit of colour?"

Bagman carols, "Certainly, certainly! —That is, if Harry has no objections?"

Potter says "Er," Skeeter says "Lovely," and she drags him through a door I happen to know leads to a broom cupboard faster than you can say 'jelly-legs jinx'.

I scoff and murmur, "If there's a single word about anything but Potter in her article, I am going to waltz with the Whomping Willow."

"Vat is the Vomping Villow?" Krum asks, looking at me keenly.

"It's this tree we've got with some serious anger issues."

Just then, Madam Maxime arrives, bending nearly double to get through the door. Delacour is at her side before she has fully straightened, speaking rapidly in French, too low for me to hear. The looks they shoot at me are plenty to suss out the gist though.

Karkaroff arrives fast on Maxime's enormous heels, and quickly beckons for Krum to come away from me. No fraternizing with the enemy, I suppose. Dumbledore and Mr. Ollivander return not long after, and Dumbledore calls for the champions to please take seats in the chairs lined up next to the door. We do (Delacour sitting as far from me as possible), and the headmaster frowns when we come up one short. There is a brief huddled discussion before Dumbledore strides over to the door Skeeter and Potter are behind, and jerks it open unceremoniously. They both emerge, Potter looking relieved, Skeeter slightly annoyed. Potter takes the seat between me and Krum, and we all look about expectantly. Dumbledore takes his own seat behind the velvet-covered desks, saying, as he does so, "May I introduce Mr Ollivander? He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the Tournament."

Mr Ollivander hasn't changed at all in six and a half years. He still has that Einstein hair and odd pale eyes. I don't do chores for him, and my rota of errands almost never takes me to his shop. So, it has been allowed to live in my memory as I first saw it, strange and wonderful and chockablock full of magic. He comes forward from where he had been standing by the window. "Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you forward first, please?"

Delacour sweeps across the room and hands over her wand.

"Hmmm…" Ollivander murmurs. I watch eagerly. Wands are something that I think are extremely poorly understood by everyone but a few experts like him. He twirls it around his fingers, making it spit a flurry of pink and gold sparks, then brings it close to his face and examines it minutely. "Yes… nine and a half inches… inflexible… rosewood… and containing… dear me…"

"An 'air from ze 'ead of a Veela," Delacour says smugly. "One of my grandmuzzers." That explains it then. Delacour must have enough Veela blood in her to turn their strange attraction on and off at will. And no wonder Krum had shown no interest: as I had said to Rosemary, he had been exposed to full-blooded Veela at the Quidditch World Cup and must have developed a resistance.

Mr. Ollivander does a few other things with Delacour's wand, then mutters a spell that causes a bouquet of flowers to materialize, and calls me forward.

"Ah, yes, I remember this one," he murmurs when I hand my wand over. "Eleven and a half inches, applewood, quite stiff… and the hair from the tail of a female unicorn. This was one of my very first wands, did I tell you? Quite the quick match, as I seem to recall. An unusual thing for apple wands. Congratulations, by the way: applewood is apt at finding owners endowed with great longevity." I smirk. Take that, Trelawney. "And it seems to be in fine condition."

I nod. I've kept it in pristine condition, actually, my wand being the single most important thing I own, and certainly the most expensive.

Then he holds it up to his ear and frowns slightly. "It feels… somewhat out of alignment, however. You haven't lost it recently, or let someone else use it, have you?" He fixes me with an unexpectedly direct stare.

I grimace, wondering how in the world he could know that. "I was forced to give it up for a week, about a month ago. No one else was using it though, I don't think." Snape had _better_ not been using it!

"Hm," he grunts. "It hasn't forgiven you yet. Do plenty of magic before the task and it ought to be fine." He murmurs a spell and a quartet of long blue ribbons ripple from the end of my wand and twist around each other through the air in a complicated Celtic knot before poofing out of existence. He hands my wand back and I return to my seat. Krum and Potter go next, but I don't pay attention. I remember thinking my wand seemed… off after I got it back from Snape, but the feeling had faded after a couple of days. Is it possible that it wasn't just me getting used to it again? Can wands hold grudges? Mr Ollivander seems to think so.

Dumbledore's voice brings me back to the world some time later. "Thank you all," he says, standing up. "You may all go back to your lessons now—or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to dinner, as they are about to end…" I look around, surprised. Has so much of the afternoon passed already? I get up and head for the door, but Bagman's exclamation of "Photos, Dumbledore, photos!" pulls me up short. I forgot the photographer was even there. "All the judges and champions. What do you think, Rita?"

"Er—yes, let's do those first," Skeeter murmurs, gaze once again locked on Potter. "And then perhaps some individual shots."

I think about protesting that I have Charms work, and that it's getting on dinner time, and don't we all have more important things to do anyway?, but I don't.

Half an hour later, I wish I had. There is really no excuse to the photographs to take so long, and I am steaming with impatience by the time we are finally released. As usual, my emotions are clear on my face, and the photographer tells me several times to stop looking like I want to kill something. All I want when he finally packs up is to grab some food and retreat to my bed, bugger Charms homework and whatever else I have to do.

But as we're all filing out into the corridor, Krum catches me up. "Vould you show me vere is the dining room from here?"

I huff a sigh. "Sure, follow me."

Karkaroff has remained to speak to Bagman and Skeeter, so there is no one to save me from having to be polite, or to stop him from fraternizing with the enemy. He makes a few attempts at conversation as we go down through the castle, but my responses are lackluster to say the least. But I am forced to dispel my idea of Krum as a spoiled rotten rich snooty Quidditch player, at least partially. He's quite nice, if a little stilted, and if I weren't in such a sour mood we might have managed a fair conversation.

He joins the other Durmstrang students at the Slytherin table once we get to the Great Hall though, and I grab some food before heading back to Gryffindor Tower. All efforts to focus on Charms work prove fruitless, however, even with Edgar there to lend patience and steal food, and I bury myself beneath blankets and fall asleep while it's still light outside.

I'm doing homework in the common room the next evening—an unusual event, given how little I like company, but Edgar wants to be with me and he's not allowed in the library. He thinks I'm spending much too much time away from him these days, and I have proof of his displeasure in the form of several tooth-shaped puncture marks on my wrist.

Several dictionaries are spread in front of me, meticulous columns of cryptograms marching down the pages. I'm mechanically cross-referencing for Babbling's latest article. It's dead boring stuff, just tracing the history of a couple symbols she thinks have been historically misused, but frankly we're not getting very far. I sit back resignedly and scritch Edgar, who is curled up in the nest of my crossed legs. Across the table from me, a couple second year boys are having a heated debate about their Herbology homework, but our table by the window is the only island of study in the sea of the common room's usual chaos. The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan the Quidditch announcer are playing a particularly tense game of Exploding Snaps, Gideon and the fifth year he's dating this week are having a furious argument by the portrait hole, and someone's enormous orange cat is on the prowl, and looks suspiciously interested in a large ornamental butterfly on the end of one girl's long dark plait.

I close my eyes and let my head tip back against the chair. Truth to tell, I had not anticipated being so busy this year. Being a seventh year on the way to Newts is obviously a lot of work for anyone, but pile on top my Euro-Glyph application and trying to research for the task and I'm completely swamped. I yawn widely enough for my jaw to crack and wonder if I've done enough to satisfy Babbling yet.

Something rattles on the table by my elbow. I crack one eye open. It's Potter's little friend. Not the Weasley one, the girl with bushy hair. Gramer? Granger. She's looking directly at me, and holding a tin full of badges.

"Do you need something?" I ask, rolling my head forward reluctantly.

"I'm hoping you'll join my organization," she tells me earnestly and takes out one of the badges.

I squint at it. "Spew?"

"S.P.E.W.," she corrects peevishly. "Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare."

"Oh. What's it for?"

"To promote welfare for elves." She's obviously becoming impatient with me. "House-elves specifically. Did you know that there are over one hundred house-elves in Hogwarts at this very moment, cooking your meals and cleaning the castle and washing your clothes without so much as a thank you, let alone payment or benefits?"

I admit I am not aware of that.

"What S.P.E.W. hopes to do is raise awareness of this travesty with the ultimate goal of one day putting the house elves on the payroll and giving them benefits like sick leave and holidays."

She looks at me expectantly. "Er, very good," I say after a moment.

"By joining S.P.E.W. you would be contributing in a very real way to raising house elves from their current state of slavery and winning them more humane treatment. Can I put you down? It's two Sickles to be an official member." She whips a quill out from somewhere as well as a sheet of parchment and looks at me eagerly.

"Sorry, this sounds great and everything, what you're doing, but I haven't got the money to spare at the moment."

Her face falls. "It's just two Sickles," she wheedles. I shrug. She puts the parchment and quill down, though not away. "But it would be so amazing if you would join. You're a Hogwarts champion, so if other people saw you getting involved it would really encourage them take part as well."

"I think you're overestimating my influence," I say skeptically.

"Not at all," she insists, leaning forward. "People are really interested in you. They think you're really cool and mysterious."

I digest this. "Well, be that as it may—"

A shrill scream cuts across the usual hubbub and we both whip around. The huge cat I noticed earlier finally made its move and is doing its best to eat the girl's butterfly clip before it gets away.

"No! Bad Crookshanks!" Granger shouts, leaping to her feet and dashing across the common room. I take the reprieve as a chance to scoop all my things off the table and escape upstairs with Edgar.

Over the next couple of weeks, I spend an enormous amount of time in the library. By doing this, I almost miss a great deal. Skeeter's article comes out, and, just as I anticipated, there is hardly a word in edgewise about anything except Potter. I grab a copy left lying around in the common room and give it a read-through, and discover that Madam Malkin's reaction is very close to the only reasonable one. Krum and Delacour make a very brief appearance in the last paragraph, both of their names misspelled, and I do not feature at all. I think about whether I'm offended or not. On the one hand, Skeeter is a lying gossip monger whose opinion of me has no bearing on my life whatsoever. On the other hand, it's a four page article, and my name isn't long.

But since I am closeted in the library all the time, I miss the fact that Potter gets a really hard time about it. It's several days until I pay enough attention to anything anyone says to hear it, and then it's only because I accidentally left my Potions book in the dorm when I came down for lunch. Several Slytherins quote some of the more overblown passages at him, and his face turns a dull red. I consider asking him about it, but then think that he's probably got enough on his plate. So I just retreat to the library to research the first task.

At first I just read everything I can think of that sounds 'daring'. I read a lot about old explorers, witches and wizards who discovered magical artifacts from history, or who made contact with other magical races. I get side-tracked for a whole afternoon reading about a chap called Newton Scamander who seems to have discovered half the magical animals known today. Then there's Gulliver Pokeby whose main distinction is not dying when this one kind of bird sang to him. Gondoline Oliphant looks promising until I figure out all she did was knock about with trolls and eventually got clubbed to death while sketching them. My favorite is Menachem Perlmutter, who once set out on a journey with nothing but his wand, a teapot, and his pet Kneazle, and won a month-long riddle contest with a sphinx, discovered and then forgot the meaning of the mooncalf's dance, and had tea with a Queen. As a Brit, I understand that to mean HM the Queen, but that isn't actually specified. He eventually returned home with the Elder Wand, whatever that is, a sack brimming with gold and jewels, and his Kneazle who was not actually a Kneazle but a beautiful and intelligent woman whom "the Queen" had recognized and Transfigured back to her proper body. He gave the teapot to a beggar in Cairo because it was all he had, but the beggar turned out to be the Queen's son in disguise, so that's how that came about. Amusing as these legends and histories are, however, I'm not learning a lot from them.

After the first week of research, I take a long enough break for common sense to catch up with me and realize that looking at historical examples of the Tournament would be brilliant, obviously. So I check out _Hogwarts: A History_ and a few other books that are referenced as footnotes in the chapter on the old Tournaments. What I read is not encouraging. Over the years, the Tournament got more and more wildly dangerous as each of the three schools tried to outdo the other two. Hopefully they'll have toned it down a little bit from the way it was played in the seventeen-hundreds. Fighting a cockatrice with no prior warning does not seem fair. Though in a way, the fact that we have no prior information is almost comforting: they must be at least moderately sure we'll be able to deal with it without preparation, whatever 'it' turns out to be. I mean, it's not likely that they'll fill the lake with sharks and piranhas and tell us to find the one with the golden tooth. Professor Dumbledore, if not Bagman or Crouch, is more creative than that.

Though Dumbledore did call the tasks 'extremely dangerous'…

Suffices to say, I do a lot of reading in the weeks leading up to the 24th of November. Only two things distract me in any substantial way. Well, three really. But the third's just a nuisance. The main one is my application to the Euro-Glyph School. I ask Professor Flitwick and Professor Babbling for the first two recommendations, and both of them suggest Professor McGonagall when I ask them about the third and fourth, so I hesitantly put the question to her and am surprised when she says yes. That still leaves me stumped for a fourth, but I do have a couple weeks to figure it out. I send a letter to the campus in London requesting a date for an interview early in the Christmas holiday, and clear it with McGonagall to make sure I'll have a way to get down there. Babbling helps me with the essay I write in runes, but I'm left largely to my own devices with the French one. I spend a solid couple of minutes berating myself for being so rude to Delacour since the Beauxbatons students would have been a perfect resource and there's no way they'll help me now. But since French is a human language it's not _too_ difficult. Human languages are miles easier than magical ones. And there are all kinds of dictionaries and grammars in the library.

The second annoying thing is that my classmates transformed from jackals to lapdogs overnight and it is extraordinarily frustrating. Every day in class, they'll budge over to make room on benches, or try to wave me over to sit with them during meals. India and Alexandra have begun inviting me to join their nightly primping sessions and one day Alexandra even goes so far as to try to brush my hair while I'm reading. Fortunately Edgar gets to her before me and she gets off with a bitten thumb rather than a hexed… everything. Kay did offer me sincere congratulations the day after I was selected and left it at that, and I decide anew that I like her, even if we will never be friends.

The third nuisance is that Krum seems to spend a lot of time in the library. That in and of itself is not the problem: he's quiet and everything, just sits in the corner and reads. It's his dratted fanclub. Gangs of girls go flittering and twittering around between the shelves, trying and mostly failing to spy on him and generally being a right pain the arse. I don't blame Krum for this. After all, it's highly unlikely that Durmstrang managed to pack enough books into that ship of theirs to really help him any. I admit, I keep a clandestine eye out for the books he reads in case he somehow got wind of anything to do with the task. Karkaroff agrees with Maxime that the scales have been most advantageously tipped in Hogwarts' favour and I wouldn't put it past him to give his champion an illegal nudge every now and then. But Krum mostly just sticks to the same material as me. And he doesn't get much done anyway. Reading a second language is always more difficult than speaking it, I've found, and he's only mostly fluent in verbal English.

But even with the distractions that daily life and my application and everything else bring, it's suddenly November 23rd. I awaken early and mindlessly gather my class materials: Transfiguration in the morning and my Runes tutorial in the afternoon. The other girls are only beginning to yawn and stir when I leave, and there is barely anyone in the Great Hall. I prop my Transfiguration book against a milk pitcher and spread my essay in front of my plate. I didn't finish it last night because I was busy working on one of my Euro-Glyph essays, but I wish I had swapped them and could work on that now. I scrawl nonsense as the Hall fills up with yawning students, some cramming in last-minute homework like me.

I've finished eating and am packing up my things to go to class when the mail arrives. I scowl, remembering the rigged birthday present, but then something small and feathery dive-bombs my face.

"Oof!"

The fluffy thing pulls away far enough for me to recognize it as Budgin, an owl from the post office in the Alley. He's a pygmy owl, tiny as his name suggests and spotted brown and white and grey. He came in three years ago as a chick and I got to name him, and he's been devoted to me ever since. The postmistress, a tall, severe woman named Ms. Phillips, grumbles things about nascent fixation whenever I come in and he dive-bombs me like just now, but I like him anyway.

Twittering exuberantly, he settles on my shoulder, snuggling against my cheek most unabashedly and hooting feelings to the effect that it has been so long and why do you have to leave every year and all the bigger owls are mean to me and can't I come live with you?, meanwhile proffering his leg to which a small tube of parchment is affixed. Scratching his head with one hand, I remove the letter with the other. Who would be writing to me? I already heard back from the Euro-Glyph School confirming my interview date. Still one-handed, I spread it out on the table.

_Dear Nita,_ the letter begins, confusing me more than ever. No one calls me 'dear Nita' unless it's a classmate being condescending. I read on: _How are you getting on at Hogwarts this year? I trust the N.E.W.T. work is not too terrible. I saw in the Prophet about the Triwizard Tournament happening—how exciting! Are the students from the other schools friendly? Who is the champion for Hogwarts? As usual_

I skip down to the signature and am amazed to see _Marigold P. M. Bigby_ in looping, graceful letters. Below that, in the blocky scrawl I recognize as Bigby's, **The note you left was shite. Send a better one. – Bigs** I blink down at the page, perfectly bemused.

Just then the bell goes, startling Budgin off my shoulder in a flurry of wings and shrieks. I barely manage to catch him again before dashing out of the Hall, but I think he understands when I coo '_wait_' and '_flock up_' to mean 'wait in the Owlry till I come with a reply'. It's a rush job and owls can be fairly thick sometimes, Budgin in particular, so I'd have to wait and see.

I'm antsy throughout Transfiguration and do even more poorly than usual. McGonagall makes no comment though, so I suppose she puts it down to nerves about the task.

Afterwards, I dash to the library and pull the letter back out of my bag.

_As usual that creature Skeeter has neglected to say anything of substance, and I am entirely vexed with the paper office for putting her in charge of the matter. Not to say Harry Potter isn't very tragic and everything, but __really__, he's laying it on a bit thick. Though I'm sure it was all blown out of proportion by the reporter herself. Do write soon! I have lots of friends who are very excited to hear what's really going on, and you are quite the most promising source we have since my sister Poppy despises writing letters. Best of luck in your studies,_

_Marigold P. M. Bigby_

**The note you left was shite. Send a better one. – Bigs**

For the longest time, I am stumped. Neither of them have ever sent me a letter before, except for the wedding invitation. What heralds the occasion this time? Is it simply that Madam Malkin (I am unable to call her anything else: 'Mrs. Bigby' sounds ridiculous, and 'Marigold' flat-out disrespectful) wants to use her connection to me to get the inside scoop on Hogwarts? Not that there's anything wrong with wanting to know what's going on… But Bigby is certainly not the type to go fishing for gossip. He simply told me to write a better note, whatever that means, with no indication as to his desires for its contents.

After a time I simply decide to take it at face value and write a straight-forward reply. I tell them that my studies are going well, that I intend to send my application to the Euro-Glyph School early next month, that I am the Hogwarts champion and the first task is tomorrow and I don't know what it is or what to do. My words seem perfunctory and brusque when I'm done, but it's the best I can do. I've never been any good at talking about myself, so all I give them are the facts and hope that will suffice.

It's just lunchtime when I finish, so I grab a plate and jog out to the Owlry to see if Budgin has remained. I have never been to the Owlry before, and I find that it is much like the post office back home: lots of noise and feathers in the air and the smell of droppings. Budgin has remained, and promptly cannons into me again. Ignoring the couple other students also busy sending letters, I coo and cluck and tie the note to his leg.

"I need you to take this to Madam Malkin, okay? Her apartment though, not the shop. That's upstairs. Can you do that for me, little Budge?"

He shrieks enthusiastic agreement and shoots out the window and heads south towards London. Shaking my head and smiling, I head back to the castle. I've got Potions in an hour, and I want to do some more research beforehand.

I ignore the now-common attention I get from other students. Shouts of good luck, some jokes about anxiety, and laughter, now good-natured rather than mocking, follow me everywhere these days. I know I must look callus at best, at worst incredibly arrogant, to ignore everyone, but to be honest I simply don't know how to react. I could try to stumble out awkward thanks to anyone who approaches me, or laugh along with those who joke me, or tell the whole lot of them to bugger off. But I am used to attention being negative. The Potions class at the beginning of the year, for instance, was the greatest number of eyes I had had one me for several months, ever since the infamous ink-in-the-face episode which caused quite a stir in the Great Hall.

Once I get to the quiet of the library, I get a fair deal of work done, doing a proofread of all of my Euro-Glyph essays and starting the next day's Defense homework. It's irksome that even though I am facing an unknown task of great danger, I still have to deal with daily life.

The bells rings, and I pack up and head for the dungeons. Given my druthers, I would stew Snape in his own cauldron, but for the next half year I have to be good enough to pass his class. I slow down when I see several of my classmates coming out of the Arithmancy hall, chatting and laughing. The last thing I want is to be forced to endure their prattle and fawning all the way down to the dungeons. So I skulk along at a distance as we go down the great marble stairs and through the Entry Hall, mixing with some younger Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs coming in from Herbology or Care of Magical Creatures or something, then down into the basement passages which eventually lead to Snape's classroom. Ahead of me, my classmates turn a corner, and just as they disappear, a seam along the bottom of my bag splits with a loud ripping sound, and my books and class things scatter across the floor. My last inkwell smashes, splattering everything with the sticky black liquid, and my cauldron lands on my foot. I kneel and start to gather everything up, swearing violently in Gobbledegook the whole time. Gobbledegook is an excellent language for swearing because, similarly to German, it is very guttural and everything sounds angry or disgruntled.

"_Reparo," _I snap at the glass shards that were my inkwell and they gather up and rejoin themselves under the tip of my wand.

I startle as hands join mine in collecting my books and ruined parchment, and I look up to find Potter kneeling next to me.

"You don't have to help," I tell him bitterly. "I knew that seam was weak. That was the last of my parchment though—"

"It's dragons," he interrupts. "The first task."

I freeze. "What?"

"The task tomorrow is dragons. They've got four, one for each of us. We've got to get past them somehow."

For a moment I am speechless. "Are you serious?" I eventually grind out.

"Dead serious," he says grimly. "I've seen them. You're probably the last champion not to know. Maxime and Karkaroff saw the dragons too."

I stare the moment longer it takes to discern he is in utter earnest, then take off running back towards the library, Potions be buggered. I nearly crash into Professor Moody (he shouts after me "Running in the halls? Five points off Gryffindor! CONSTANT VIGILANCE!") and do run right through the Fat Friar on the first storey (who calls "I say!" and leaves it at that in true Hufflepuff form).

_The first task is dragons!?_ And they didn't give us _any_ warning? That's worse than a buggering cockatrice! Dragons are huge! And they breathe fire! Get past one? I'm only seventeen! God knows if I'll pass any of my _Newts_! A buggering _dragon!?_

The library is nearly deserted at this hour, so I dump my things—still ink-splattered and crumpled—on one of the larger work tables and set about finding every book on dragons the library has to offer. There are bestiaries both general and specific, books explaining how to care for dragons, books explaining how their various features can be utilized after death, books describing brave and foolish wizards who tried to tame one and died toasty deaths for their efforts, books of any and every variety. But none that will tell me how to get past one tomorrow afternoon.

Hours fly by in this fashion. Classes let out for the afternoon and students filter in. I pay them even less attention than usual. My very life could be resting on the books in front of me and I'll be damned if I'm going to let some—I glance around, identifying several fifth year girls as the source of the newest disturbance—stupid bunch of Ravenclaws…

I glance up again and groan quietly. They're a particularly noxious segment of Krum's fanclub. A more careful look around proves that he's in one of his usual corners, hunched over a slim volume which I can't read the title of. I scowl, remembering Potter's words: _"__You're probably the last champion not to know…. Maxime and Karkaroff saw the dragons too.…" _It galls me to think that Krum has known what we're to face, and has been sitting in plain view the whole time. Mocking me? Monitoring? My resentment towards him and Delacour hardens. Though, Potter didn't say how long he had known. He could have found out this morning, certainly, but he also could have found out weeks ago and only just gotten around to telling me. My resentment of the whole situation hardens.

Before I can turn back to my book and focus my fury productively, Krum looks up and locks eyes with me. Just as in front of the Goblet, my heart clenches. It's not dissimilar to the feeling of vertigo. And the instead of looking away, he gets to his feet and walks over to me. I press down a feeling of irrational panic.

"Hallo," he says to me. I hear his fanclub go quiet. 'Yes, the god among mortals is speaking,' I think sarcastically.

"Hello."

He shifts from foot to foot, glancing to the side. Freed from the weird effect of his eyes, I stoke my impatience. Abruptly he holds out his hand. "Haff you looked in this vun yet?" He is offering me the book he had been looking at. I hadn't even noticed him bring it from the table. _The Mating Habits of the Common Draccus_, says the cover, by Devan Lochees. It's a book I'd missed during my desperate scour of the shelves, but it doesn't look promising. I don't want to know about the reproductive behaviors of dragons, I want to know how to get past one. Unless I transfigure myself into a particularly attractive dragon (unlikely, considering my skills in McGonagall's class), I've nothing to learn from it. But why does Krum want me to have it? Is he trying to set me off chasing a red herring?

The silence has gone on for too long, and he has gone back to shifting on his feet. He clears his throat. "It has in it the many differ—"

"Look," I snap, impatience and anxiety spilling forth in an angry gush. "I don't care what that book says in it. We're facing d—a terrible danger tomorrow, we both know it—" I give him a hard look and his eyes widen. Perhaps he had thought he had the edge over me. Well, he did until a couple hours ago. "—and I don't need you getting in my way. Don't think that just because you're famous, everyone automatically has to listen to you. Please go away!"

The already-quiet library is silent as a crypt. I realize my voice has risen far beyond the acceptable low murmur. Every eye is on me: all the other studying students, quills frozen over parchment; Krum's fanclub, their jaws hanging open incredulously; Krum himself, expression full of shock and an obscure kind of regret.

Then Madam Pince descends. "Miss _Linese!"_ _Her_ voice doesn't rise above a harsh whisper, yet it holds all the sharp recrimination in the world. "Abominable display! To have the quietude in this sanctuary of study shattered so violently is—" I stop listening. Eloquent though the librarian is, I'm not going to hear anything new. She'll scold me for a bit, then kick me out. In anticipation of that event, I start stacking the books according to their usefulness: not useful, useful, not useful, not useful, not useful, _completely_ useless, not useful, useful, not useful, not useful, _Mating Habits of the Common Draccus_— I pause. Why is that here? It rests in my hand, slim, bound in fine blue cloth with shimmery white embossing for the title. I look up and find that Krum has gone. Bloody coward scarpered as soon as trouble came up! I sneer and start muttering rude things in Gobbledegook as I stack parchment and gather quills and generally tidy my work station while Madam Pince continues talking my ear off. I drop all my things in my cauldron and drop my cauldron in my bag only to have it fall right through the seam that tore out earlier, land on my foot again, and send all my stuff scattering across the floor. My inkpot even shatters again. That is when I decide to be done with the day.

Ignoring Madam Pince's quiet but spitting outrage and the snickers of other library occupants, especially Krum's fanclub, I sweep everything back into my cauldron, including my useless bag, and stomp out. I get some odd looks from the few students still out in the castle, and it does my temper no good to think that I probably look like a cranky, blonde version of Little Red Riding Hood with her basket. Yes, and when I get to Gran's house I will stuff her full of crumpled class notes and a useless school rucksack.

I'm hoping for some peace and quiet when I get back to the dorm, but none of that is to be had.

"…and afterwards he walked me all the way to the greenhouses even though it made him late for Ancient Runes!" Rosemary is gushing when I open the door.

"Oh my god, Roger is amazing! Is he going to take you to the Yule Ball?" Alexandra asks.

'Yule Ball?' I wonder, crabby and distracted.

"He hasn't asked me yet, but I think he's waiting for the next Hogsmeade weekend."

"That is _adorable_!" India shrieks.

I sigh disgustedly and toss my cauldron into my trunk. The heavy clunk makes the others look up.

"Hello Nita," Kay says pleasantly and goes back to her Transfiguration book. Edgar waddles towards me from the nest he has made in my pillow and I lift him onto my shoulder.

"Nita!" Rosemary exclaims. "Where were you? We were so worried! You missed Potions and dinner! We thought you were horribly ill or something! Are you alright?"

"Of course I am," I mutter impatiently, rooting through my trunk for pajamas.

"Are you really alright though, Nita?" Kay asks concernedly and I see how she's the oldest of six siblings. "It's not like you to miss meals." I shoot her a look, wondering how close attention she's had to pay to me to know that. It makes me uncomfortable.

"I was just in the library," I grumble, resenting that their badgering is working on me.

"Why were you _there_?" India asks, wrinkling her nose.

"Reading up for the task tomorrow," I snap, and bang the bathroom door shut behind me.

That's not enough to stifle them though. "Oooh, you know what it is?" Alexandra asks excitedly.

"The champions aren't allowed to know," I tell her. This has been my line whenever anyone asks me what the task involves. The truth of it hasn't changed just because I do know now. This sends my mind spiraling back to the fact that I will be facing a real live dragon tomorrow afternoon and I still have not one single clue what to do about it. I could literally die. I have to pause from washing my teeth to take a deep breath at the thought. Edgar nuzzles my ear, sensing my anxiety, and I pet his head appreciatively.

"I wish I was facing a ferret tomorrow," I murmur to him. "I'd show it you and it would immediately fall in love and let me past." He chirrups amusement and I smile a little.

But I still don't know what to do when I climb into bed a minute later. And the best idea I have come up with when I fall asleep a minute after that is to hope for adrenaline to stimulate inspiration. If facing a giant fire-breathing reptile doesn't induce enough adrenaline for that, nothing ever will.

**A/N**

**Huge appreciation to whoever notices the little tiny ****_Kingkiller Chronicle_**** reference I dropped in there (which is of course owned by Pat Rothfuss and I would never ever dream of claiming otherwise).**

**Chapter 6, "Guilt of Gilt", will go up next Tuesday!  
**

**All characters (except for mine) are owned by JK Rowling, Warner Bros, etc.  
**

**E.I. signing out**


	6. Guilt of Gilt

_Chapter 6 – Guilt of Gilt_

I wake up the next morning unable to breathe, but after a moment of blind panic I discern that it's only because Edgar is lying across my neck. It's still quite early if the dim sky through the window is anything to judge by, but anxiety about the task already grips me and I know I won't be able to fall back asleep. Trying not to wake him, I shift Edgar over to my unused pillow and roll out of bed.

"_Lumos __minis_," I mutter, and begin groping for clothes in the dim wand light. It occurs to me as I'm pulling my usual jumper on that perhaps I ought to spiff up a bit for the task later today. I run through my mental inventory of my (very small) wardrobe. The nicest robes I own are the ones Madam Malkin gave me last year for Christmas, and those are the ones I've already got on. But then I scoff to myself: I'm facing a bloody dragon, why would I wear nice clothes anyway? In this spirit, I change into some of my older clothes: threadbare and tatty, quite, but I won't mind if they get burned to cinders.

I kneel with my wand in my teeth so that I can dig around for my class materials in my jumbled trunk, tossing my useless bag under the bed for the time being. I find my Potions book first, but set it aside. One nice thing about facing a dragon is that Potions will be canceled this afternoon. I smile cynically. Next out of my trunk is _Mating Habits of the Common Draccus_. I frown at it in deep confusion. The most logical explanation is that it got shuffled up in all my things yesterday when I fled the library, but still. It's starting to feel like the book is following me around. I toss it onto my bed with the Potions book.

When I reach the Great Hall fifteen minutes later it's still early enough that the tables aren't even laden yet. I push a couple of plates out of the way and settle into my usual spot just below the teacher's table. I hadn't managed to finish the Defense homework yesterday due to getting so distracted with the whole The-Task-Is-Dragons thing and I buckle down to it now.

Students trickle in over the next half hour, and breakfast appears on the golden platters. I do my best to ignore those who call out to me, mostly offering well-wishes. If I focus hard enough on classwork, I don't have to think about the fact that I'm to face a real live fire-breathing dragon in a rapidly shrinking number of hours.

I ignore everyone, that is, until someone comes right up to me and asks a direct question.

"Hi Nita, can we sit with you?"

I glance up. It's Rosemary and her usual cohort of Alexandra and India. They look expectant and confident. I look back at my work.

"No."

There is a stunned silence.

"We're only trying to be friendly," Rosemary says, playing the Wounded Good Samaritan to a tee.

"Look," I snap, crossing my arms and setting my elbows on the table. "You don't like me. I know that, I'm not stupid. You hated me before I was chosen and you like me less, if possible, now. And I don't care: I don't want your false friendship. If you want everyone to see you brownnosing with a champion, go sit with Potter. He's too polite to tell you to bugger off. Your presence here offends me."

My three classmates look down at me incredulously, mouths agape. I stare back, not giving an inch. Then, in an impressive display of synchronicity, all three of then turn on their heels and march away. But just as she turns, India's bag smacks into a pitcher of orange juice and it tips and spills across the table and all over my things.

"Hey!" I shout, jumping to my feet too slowly to avoid a wash of juice splashing into my lap. It looks like a perfect accident, but given our history and the fact that they all look back and smirk at me, I can give a confident guess that it's the contrary. Cursing fluently in every language I can think of, I do my best to mop up the spill. Besides for the whole end of the table and my lap, the liquid also got all over my essay and Defense book, soaking through many pages and muddying the ink. I scowl ferociously. A mild Dehydration Charm makes sure it's not sopping wet anymore, but the pages are irreparably wrinkled and smell of citrus. I'll never be able to sell it back to Flourish and Blotts in this condition. Mr Bellamy has standards, after all. I'll have to take it to Obscurus', and I certainly won't get more than a third of what I originally paid for it. To top it off, my homework is ruined. _And_ I smell like oranges.

Just then the mail owls start pouring in. I notice a fluffy brown bullet in my peripheral vision just in time to squeeze my eyes shut before Budgin caroms into my face. He's shrieking with joy at seeing me again, earning giggles from nearby students.

I spit out a feather. "Hi, Budge." He twitters brightest salutations at the top of his lungs. "Let me guess: got a letter?" He perches on the toast rack and proudly sticks his leg out to me. I detach the slim roll of parchment and he flutters up to my shoulder and rubs his face against mine. As I had expected, the letter is from Madam Malkin and Bigby.

_Dear  
^__Nita!  
__Why in the world did you not tell us that you were the Hogwarts champion in the Triwizard Tournament! I thought Randolph made it clear that we want to hear more from you this year! This is a hugely exciting development in your life! Why keep it secret? We're dreadfully excited for you, of course. Do tell us how the task goes. Much love and our very best wishes, M.P.M.B.  
_**That's better. Good luck. –Bigs  
**_PS, this owl seems very eager to take you our reply, so I expect you'll get this promptly. Write back soon! Tell us everything!_

I blink, thoroughly confused. Rereading it does not help. The letter does not make sense. Am I supposed to have told them I'm in the Tournament? I didn't remember Bigby ever saying they wanted to hear from me more. And I haven't been keeping it a secret—I just haven't told them. How am I supposed to reply to this? Madam Malkin, at least, sounds like she wants an apology for something, but I don't know what I did. If they want me to tell them things, they should write me and ask. Which, now that I think about it, is exactly what they did.

"Budge, I can't reply to this right now. If you want to wait in the Owlry till tonight I might have something but I might not." He doesn't understand English of course, but he knows I'm talking to him and nuzzles all the harder. '_flock up,' _I hoot softly. '_fly at dark, burden or no.'_ He nips my ear playfully and flaps off with the rest of the owls.

I frown after him. What can I have to tell Bigby and Madam Malkin? I can tell them how the task goes, once it's over. But I still don't understand why they're so interested. The basis of our relationship is that they're _not_ responsible for me. Shaking my head at the mystery, I head up towards the library to try and salvage my Defense essay since I have two free hours before class. Maybe it's not as badly stained and runny as I thought at first. If it is, I'll have to use some of the last of my parchment to rewrite it. A good portion of my unused parchment is now orange-juicey. I regret skipping the Hogsmeade trip on Saturday. Practically no ink, verging on no paper… I'm in a sorry state for a seventh-year.

As I near the library however, I remember the scene from last night. If Krum is there again, I certainly don't want to see him. If Krum is not there, I still don't want to be there because I am starting to think I might have overreacted. Scowling at the world in general and myself in particular, I turn and head for a nearby empty classroom.

My essay isn't in as bad shape as it originally looked, so I add a concluding paragraph and call it done. Of course, with nothing to distract me, my mind zeroes in on the task that is now only a scant four hours away. I wrack my brains for any kind of solution, but I can't focus. My mind keeps haring off in completely useless directions. I wonder what Bigby and Madam Malkin would have said if I wrote later in the day yesterday and told them the task is to get past a dragon. I wonder who my fourth Euro-Glyph recommendation will come from. I wonder if Krum is angry at me for what I said last night.

The bell, when it rings, practically scares me out of my skin. I'm nearly late when I arrive at the Defense room panting and gasping, but I still beat the crowd who are in the Newt Divination class, so it's fine. I feel like I'm in a dream throughout class. The humdrum of class and note taking and "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" simply does not mesh with the knowledge that I will be facing a dragon after lunch. I nearly giggle when it occurs to me that if I kept an organizer of any sort, today would look like "Double Defense, lunch, face a dragon." They're just completely discordant!

I feel as though I'm walking underwater as I follow the jostling throng of students to lunch. It is no effort to ignore people when they shout to me. I eat mechanically, not even aware of what I'm putting in my mouth. The stereotype of anxiety is that the stomach gets so knotted up that it's impossible to put food in it, but I don't have that problem. Anxiety is entirely mental for me. It's almost like I don't have a body, or like my brain detaches from it and leaves it to its own devices.

All of a sudden Professor McGonagall is beside me. "Linese, it's almost time for the task… the champions have to come down to the grounds."

I nod and rise from the bench. In an abstract sort of way, I see that Professor McGonagall and I are the center of attention, but I don't feel anything about it. We collect Potter from a little further along Gryffindor table, then head out into the cold November afternoon. "Now, don't panic, you two," our Head of House says, "just keep a cool head… we've got wizards on hand to control the situation if it gets out of hand… the main thing is just to do your best, and nobody will think any the worse of you…" It occurs to me, with some surprise, that Professor Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration Mistress and Deputy Head of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, is _nervous_. What's _she_ got to be nervous about? Potter and I are the ones about to face off against dragons.

I see her give both of us concerned looks. "Are you both alright?"

I nod, and Potter says "Yes. Yes, I'm fine." I wonder absently if I look as nervous as they do.

Professor McGonagall leads us around the edge of the Forest until we get to a large tent—sort of a pavilion, really—with the entrance facing us. "You're to go in here with the other champions," says Professor McGonagall in a very strained voice, "and wait for your turns. Mr Bagman is in there… he'll be telling you all the – the procedure… good luck to both of you."

"Thanks," Potter says in a flat voice.

With a last long look at each of us, she turns and walks away. Without looking at Potter, I step into the tent. Delacour, looking far less self-possessed than usual, sits on a low stool in the corner. Krum leans on a supporting beam with his arms crossed, looking even scowlier than he usually does. He glances at me briefly, then goes back to examining the dirt at his feet. It seems my worry from before has credence. Mr Bagman, in ostentatious yellow and black Quidditch robes that don't fit around his middle, glances at me too, but his eyes slide sideways and fix on something else.

"Harry! Good-oh!" he exclaims, bounding past me to grasp Potter's elbow. "Come in, come in, make yourself at home!" He guides him forward till the five of us are arranged in something of a circle. "Well, now we're all here – time to fill you in! When the audience has assembled, I'm going to be offering each of you this bag"—he holds up a small sack made of fine purple silk and waves it at us—"from which you will each select a small model of the thing you are about to face! There are different – er – varieties, you see. And I have to tell you something else too… ah, yes!" He snaps his fingers. "Your task is to _collect the egg!_" None of us really react and his beaming smile fades a degree or two. "We'll just… wait for the audience then, shall we?"

At those words, everyone seems to turn inside themselves. Delacour hunches forward on the stool, taking deep, even breaths. Krum crosses his arms and frowns all the more ferociously. Potter begins wandering around distractedly, looking distinctly green about the gills. I decide to take the opportunity to mend whatever hurt feelings Krum may be nursing against me. I turn and face him, squaring my shoulders even though the motion tugs my burn, as ever.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," I say, speaking for the first time since yelling at my classmates this morning at breakfast. He looks up at me, properly this time. I steel myself against the weird power of his eyes, and succeed, at least, at not blushing. I think. "I was angry about a lot of things, and I shouldn't have let it out at you like that. I was wrong." There are not many people who have ever heard me apologize, and there are fewer people who wouldn't make a big deal about it and flaunt it over me like they had won something. I'm grateful Krum isn't one of those.

He nods in response. "Do not think on it." He turns his attention back to the floor.

I fidget, wondering if I ought to say something to Delacour too since I have been much less polite to her, and on purpose to boot. Finally, and only to allay my own ambivalence, I say to her, "Sorry I've been rude to you too." It's stilted and curt and all she does is nod jerkily to me, but I feel a little better.

A few minutes later, hundreds of feet begin to be heard, thundering past our tent on their way to the arena. In that crowd are all of my classmates and professors, as well as the students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. I wonder if I feel any differently about the task based on the existence of the audience, and decide I don't. I don't care about disappointing any of them nearly as much as I care about disappointing myself. It would be nice if I could avoid the taunting that would come with failure though.

"Aaaand I believe we are set to go!" Bagman says cheerily and takes the purple silk bag out again. "Guests first!" He offers it to Delacour, who dips a shaking hand in and draws out a tiny perfect model of a dragon. In my slap-dash study of the species, I've gotten fairly good at recognizing the different breeds and hers is a Common Welsh Green. A small tag that says '2' hangs around its neck. There is no surprise in her face, so I know Potter was telling the truth about Maxime and Karkaroff.

Krum is the same, not even blinking when he draws a bright-red Chinese Fireball with the tag that says '3'.

"Ladies first," Bagman murmurs, thrusting the bag in my direction. I slip my hand into the silk and something small and hot clamps on to my finger. Startled, I jerk it out and see what I've got. '4' says the tag. I struggle for a moment to come up with the breed… Oh. A Hungarian Horntail. Renowned for being vicious and unpredictable. Even the model is baring its teeth at me. I wonder how long it would hold up against Edgar. I stuff it in my pocket.

Last of all, Potter draws out one that might be a Swedish Short-Snout with the '1' tag around its neck.

"Well, there you are!" says Bagman happily. "You have each pulled out the dragon you will face, and the numbers refer to the order in which you are to take on the dragons, do you see? Now, I'm going to have to leave you in a moment, because I'm commentating. Now, the way it works is, there'll be a whistle and I'll call your name and that's when you come out. Yes. Now… Harry, since you're first, how about walking the distance to the arena with me, eh?"

"Oh… sure," says Potter and follows Bagman outside, looking mystified.

A minute or two passes in which nothing much happens, but then the whistle splits the air and the distant crowd starts cheering and stomping. There is no way to see what's going on, but Bagman's narration is nearly too vivid.

"Alright, he's got his wand, good start old chap… he's cast something, but nothing seems to have… Oh, but see there! Good thinking, Harry! And he's off! Let's see what he does… OH!" The crowd gasps loudly, some shrill screams mixed in. "Great Scott look at him go! Watch the claws my boy! Ooh, they better not dock points for that… Now… oh, yes, he's trying to lure it away… and… and! Yes! Will you look at that! Will you just look at that! This is going to shorten the odds on our Mr Potter!"

Potter seems to finish the task remarkably quickly, and I don't know if that's a good or bad thing. The wild applause seems to indicate the former, but it's hard to tell sometimes. After all, they could all have been rooting for the dragon.

"And now the marks from the judges!" Bagman booms, and there is a minute's pause. "Brilliantly done, Harry, brilliant. Well, one down, three to go! Miss Delacour, if you please!"

The whistle shrills a second time, and Delacour walks out of the tent, trembling but with her head high, leaving me and Krum alone together. I sit on the floor by another supporting beam and chew a hangnail. I could very well be facing my death in less than an hour, and I have no idea what to do.

Delacour seems to take an incredibly long time, but that's probably my own anxiety twisting my perceptions. This happens to me before exams too. Once in first year, I went to the exam room at four in the morning because I was convinced I was late. Bagman narrates again, though not as colourfully as with Potter.

"Oh, I'm not sure that was wise! Oh… nearly! Careful now… good Lord, I thought she'd had it then!"

Abruptly the crowd cheers. It seems Delacour has succeeded.

Krum's whistle blows, and he squares his shoulders. I can imagine him doing the same thing at the start of Quidditch matches. Before stepping out of the tent though, he looks at me. "Vill you vish me luck?" he asks, dark eyes boring into mine.

"Uh." I say. "Good luck."

He nods, says, "And on you," and vanishes from my sight.

'I hope he doesn't die,' I think, then look around, wondering where the thought came from.

"And here comes Mr. Krum…!"

I stick my fingers in my ears so that I can't hear Bagman anymore. When I close my eyes as well, the sensory deprivation makes it feel as though I've already died and there's nothing left to worry about. I literally have no idea how much time passes before the dimly-heard whistle summons me. It could have been a minute. An hour. The rest of my life.

The sun is blinding. I walk past some trees to the gap in the enclosure's fence.

I am facing a large open field ringed by high benches full of students, all cheering and waving Hogwarts or Gryffindor flags. But the real item of interest is the dragon at the far end of the field.

The knowledge that I have no idea what to do smothers me as I take a couple steps further into the enclosure. All that reading I did is useless. I had been counting on brilliant inspiration to strike when prompted by adrenaline. I learn that this was an extraordinarily stupid mistake.

The Horntail hunkers at the far end of the enclosure, wings half-open, golden eyes glinting out of a black scaly face. Her spiked tail thrashes behind her, leaving gouges over half my height in the earth. I'm hyperaware of my wand in my pocket. What in the world am I meant to do with that flimsy stick of wood? Eleven and a half inches of applewood and unicorn hair against several tons of angry Hungarian Horntail does not sound like good odds. I see that the dragon is hunched over a clutch of cement-grey eggs, all about the size of footballs, and at the very top of the pile is a golden egg, which is obviously my goal.

But then the dragon growls, and I know what I can do. I laugh with relief.

"Er… _interesting_ show of confidence from our champion in the arena…" Bagman says as I pace forward with assurance. The dragon eyes me distrustfully and shifts her hindquarters back and forth like the big orange cat in the common room thinking of pouncing on the butterfly hairgrip.

I know what I can do, but I need more of a basis to work from. I need a reference for intonation and so forth. Even in human languages, tones matter. The difference between sarcasm and sincerity is a slight twist of the throat, and in Mandarin, tone can change the meaning of a word altogether. The last thing I want to do is insult the Horntail's mother by accident.

Muggle lore has it that dragons are wise, enormous, and greedy. They got the last one right. But the archetype of the immeasurably old dragon riddling away the centuries with whatever unlucky bastard stumbles into its lair is ridiculous. Mainly it boils down to the fact that dragons don't speak any kind of human language. When the Horntail growled, it gave me the most rudimentary possible understanding of how dragons communicate. Essentially, it seems to be like most other animal languages, intent and emotion packed into a lot of noise. Now I just have to figure out how dragons emote.

I draw my wand and utter a spell that causes several small percussive _bangs _to go off around the Horntail's head. In my reading, I learned that dragons on the whole have very sensitive hearing, and I know she must already be on edge because of the crowd screaming and shouting. The Horntail whips her head around, looking for the source of the noise, but then her intelligent yellow eyes fixate on me. I tense, ready to dive out of the way if she should breathe fire at me. Bagman is saying something in the background, but I have no attention to spare for him.

She screams _fury_ down at me, but that is exactly what I need. I wail _fear_ and _respectful apology_ back, pitching my tone high and wheedling. Her roars subside to a _confused_ grumbling, and I cautiously lower my arms from in front of my face. She's back on her haunches, still glowering at me and crouching over her clutch, but at least no longer actively thinking about killing me. I take a deep, relieved breath and begin to moan to her of _sympathy_ and the _desire to help_. I have to contort my throat in terribly uncomfortable ways to get the sounds right and I nearly gag a couple of times, but I keep it down.

She growls _skepticism_ down at me, her head arched high above me so that I have to crane back to look at her. Her nostrils dribble smoke.

Struggling to stay on pitch, I keen to her of the _struggles_ she has faced, the _danger_ her _eggs_ have been in at the hands of the two-legged meat like me, how _brave_ and _ferocious_ she has been in _protecting_ them. I hope I'm not laying it on too thick, relying on the legend of a dragon's pride to be true.

When I fall quiet, she regards me for a very long moment, and then barks _acknowledgment_. Her neck comes out of its haughty arch and she sits back on her haunches more easily. I grin and take a seat cross-legged in front of her.

"My word, is—is she _talking_ to it?" Bagman's voice is shrill and incredulous. "Of all the deuced…!"

"Shut up, Mr Bagman!" I shout.

He does not. "I dare say, this display is making me doubt Miss Linese is taking the situation as seriously as she—"

Pursing my lips, I draw my wand again aim it at the five raised chairs where the judges are seated. "_Silencio_." There are a few shocked exclamations from the stands, but I pay no mind.

Satisfied that Bagman won't be making any more noise, I begin to sing of _admiration_ of the Horntail's clutch. Of course, singing as dragons know it is nothing like a human song. There is no melody, and being on-key is only slightly important. As far as I can tell, the only thing that really matters is volume, so that's what I focus on. I go on at length in _praise_ of her clutch, noting the _glossiness_ of the shells and their _prodigious size_ and the regularity of their _roundness_. However, 'admiration' is only a few shades away from 'covetousness', which would be dangerous, so I switch back to praising her. I don't have a real plan, but I figure buttering her up can't hurt anything.

As I go on, her face slowly starts to look almost smug. Her eyelids droop and her eyes fix on the middle distance, her wings relax, and her tail swishes back and forth without the angry tension it held earlier. I take a deep breath and give my throat a second to rest, then take a gamble and imply in the subtlest possible way that she might possibly look a little _run-down_ and _tired_, in the wrong light. Her gaze sharpens immediately and I could swear she looks offended.

She snorts reproachfully at me. I hasten to praise her _strength_ and _power_… but still… Maybe it's only because one of the _eggs is sick_? I hold my breath, praying that she doesn't fry me on the spot for such a pernicious allegation.

She doesn't fry me, but she does lose all trace of the relaxation she had previously exhibited. She hunches back over the clutch, snarling at me and snorting sparks.

_Only one!_ I call desperately. The _least_ and _smallest_ of them seems _less beautiful_, that's all.

Still growling, she glances between me and her clutch, me and her clutch. Me.

The noise she makes then does not mean _curiosity_, it is too serious for that. It reminds me a bit of Professor McGonagall demanding an explanation when a student is caught breaking a rule.

I encourage her to _smell_ them, _handle_ them. The one on _top,_ doesn't it seem… _odd?_

Still obviously ambivalent about trusting me, she takes turns holding several of them, licking a few, scraping a nail most gently down the side of a couple, including the golden one in all of these tests. I watch anxiously, wishing all the while that dragons weren't so damned possessive and I could have simply asked her to give it to me without eliciting violence. Saying "Give me that" to a dragon is the equivalent of what slapping a gentleman with a glove meant a couple hundred years ago.

The Horntail's sudden roar of _betrayal_ and _outrage_ and _not-of-me_ is so loud that it knocks me flat on my back, but then the golden egg hits my knee. I peer up blearily and see her industriously rearranging her clutch and ignoring me completely. I look down at the egg next to me. I pick it up and hold it aloft. My ears have not yet gotten around to ringing, they are so stunned by the blast they just suffered, but I think people might be clapping. Very, very dimly, I hear Bagman saying "…unorthodox… egg… get her…" Someone must have undone my Silencing Charm. Too bad.

I peer around a little blurrily and see Professor McGonagall and Professor Babbling hurrying towards me. They're smiling hugely.

"Linese!" Professor McGonagall shouts, her voice sounding very far away. She and Babbling bend to help me up, and I set my feet wide to keep my balance once they let go. Babbling appears to be crying. Professor McGonagall takes the egg from me and speaks again. "You… Madam… the…scores… fix up…"

"I can't hear you!" I shout. One of my ears has begun ringing, blotting out most of Professor McGonagall's words, but the other is queerly dead. When I raise a hand to my ear, my fingers come away sticky with blood.

McGonagall's mouth moves and she guides me to the gap in the enclosure fence. Madam Pomfrey stands there, hands on hips, a deep furrow in her brow. She and Professor McGonagall exchange words I can't hear, and then she leads me past the fence into a different tent than the one from before. She sits me down on a small cot and tilts my head sideways to examine my ear. I feel a wand jab, something _pops_ deep in my head, and I can hear again.

"…all the injuries to get facing a dragon, a burst eardrum! Potter with his shoulder and Delacour with the burn and Krum with a concussion, and you with only your eardrum? How does that feel?"

I wave my hand around my ear experimentally. "Fine, thanks," I try to say, only to find that my throat is raw and stinging and my voice is a squeak and a wisp. She smiles a little and rummages with some beakers on a table nearby.

"Drink," she says, handing me a glass with an inch's worth of bright pink potion in it. Whatever it is burns nastily on its way down my throat, and the matron gives me some water in response to my grimace. "Better now?" she asks as I set the cup aside.

I cough. "Yeah, much."

"As you should be. Now, would you care to explain why I received a very cross letter from my sister Marigold this morning asking why she didn't know you were a Triwizard champion?"

I look up at her in confusion. "She's mad at you too? I don't understand her letter. She sounded upset that I hadn't told her, but I don't know why she thought I should tell her in the first place."

Her blue eyes crinkle at the corners. "You can convince a dragon to give up one of its eggs, but you don't understand people very well, do you?" I frown at her. "Well. I expect they're ready to give you your scores now, so hop to it."

I obediently get up and exit the tent, but as soon as I step into the chilly sunshine, I am accosted by excited people from all sides. Professor McGonagall and Professor Babbling are there again, and Professor Flitwick has shown up as well, along with a chubby man with an exuberant russet beard in maroon, orange, and yellow robes, and Charlie Weasley of all people. All of them are talking over each other and Charlie and the new fellow are both shaking one of my hands. Adjectives like 'amazing' and 'unreal' are flying about and there is a great deal of laughter. Fortunately, Professor McGonagall overrides everyone else in her well trained teacher's voice: "I believe the judges are prepared to give the scores now. I'm sure we will all be able to take turns speaking to Miss Linese afterwards." She nods to me and I gratefully follow her. "Potter has the highest score thus far, forty," she says in businesslike tones. "Each judge can award up to ten points, docking points for sloppy magic, injury to the contestant or dragon, et cetera. Krum scored only thirty-two because several eggs were smashed, and Delacour received thirty-eight because her leg was burned. Here is your egg, by the way." I accept it back from her, cradling it carefully in one arm.

We are back in the enclosure. The Horntail has been taken away somewhere, nothing left of her presence but the deep rents in the earth left by her tail and claws. But my attention is drawn to the throne-like chairs where the judges sit. Madam Maxime raises her wand and a silver ribbon issues forth and twists itself into a number in the air: ten. My mouth falls open as the crowd cheers. I was so sure Madam Maxime shared Fleur's grudge against me. Why would she give me maximum points?

Next to raise his wand is Mr Crouch. Another ten forms in the air, and more cheers roll across the stands.

When Professor Dumbledore gives me a ten as well, I start to feel that I am misunderstanding something. Perhaps they all put up tens at first, and then go back through and show the actual score?

But then Bagman awards me a seven and things make sense again. "Disgusting slimy bastard," Professor McGonagall mutters next to me.

"I did put a Silencing Charm on him…" I say dubiously. Honestly, I think it's natural he should mark me down for that.

"Ludo Bagman has had worse than a Silencing Charm in his day," is the ambiguous reply.

Instead of mustering a response to that, I watch Professor Karkaroff's silver ribbon contort itself into an eight. Some quick mental arithmetic puts me at forty-five points: I've won!

The crowd screams its approval. McGonagall pats me on the shoulder. "Congratulations, Linese. You deserve it. What you did was remarkable." I flush a bit. From her, this is high praise. "Now," she continues as we head back towards the fence, "you'll need to go back to the tent for a bit. Mr Bagman has to explain some things about the next task. And after that, there are a couple people who want to talk to you."

I nod, remembering Charlie Weasley and the man with the beard. Then I step into the tent. Harry, Krum, and Fleur are all there already. Fleur has reclaimed the stool in the corner, and I notice a thick, orange, jelly-like substance smeared on her left calf, presumably healing the burn Madam Pomfrey mentioned. Harry gives me a slightly confused smile as I come in. "Good job with that," he says.

"Thanks. Likewise," I reply even though I've no idea what he did.

"Yes! Good job _all_ of you!" Bagman exclaims, bounding in and looking just as pleased as if he had completed the task himself. But he gives me a rather sour look before going on. "Now, just a quick few words. You've got a nice long break before the second task, which will take place at half past nine on the morning of February the twenty-fourth—but we're giving you something to think about in the meantime! If you look down at those golden eggs you're all holding, you will see that they open… see the hinges there? You need to solve the clue inside the egg – because it will tell you what the second task is, and enable you to prepare for it! All clear? Sure? Well, off you go, then!"

Irritated by the continually cavalier attitude about giving instructions that the organizers of the Tournament have taken, I head outside and look around for Professor McGonagall. I see her standing back near the fence with Professors Babbling and Flitwick, and the bearded man from earlier. I start to move towards them, but before I make it two steps a hand on my arm stops me short. I look around and accidentally meet the eyes of Viktor Krum. My heart does that thing again.

"You do very vell," he says earnestly. "You deserve to vin."

For a moment I forget how to speak. "Thank you," I eventually get out, moving my arm away from his hand and hoping the gesture isn't rude. Then, since I can think of no other way to continue, I say "I wish I could have seen you. I'm sure you did well." I'm not sure of that at all, actually. Professor McGonagall said he's in last place.

He shakes his head. "No. The dragon... raged and destroys some of the eggs, and her tail hits me." He touches the spot behind his ear, an unconscious movement. I nod as the silence goes on, wondering what he wants.

"I am liking your… perfume?" He says the last word uncertainly.

"Perfume?" I repeat. "I don't wear perfume."

His brow furrows. "You are smelling of... of oranges, yes?"

"Oh—!" I bite back an oath, but can't think of how to explain my current olfactory situation without embarrassing myself, so I just end up staring at him awkwardly.

"May I valk you back to the castle?" he asks abruptly, sketching what I think is a very slight bow.

"Oh… er, thanks, but I don't think I'm going—"

"Miss Linese! Miss Linese? Nita?"

My head automatically goes up, and my face flames with remembered affection when I see Charlie Weasley jogging down the path towards Krum and me, grinning hugely and waving.

"Listen," he says as he gets up to us. "That was bloody incredible. I have no idea what you did but I've never seen anything like it and if you ever need a job, just write Charlie Weasley care of the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary, I'll make sure it gets into the right hands. Say, are you a seventh year? Got plans after graduation? We've got some pretty cushy assistantships open—Merlin, bloody incredible! You keep that in mind though, yeah? I've got to dash—work to do, letters to write—Mum was dead of fright for Harry—bloody incredible though, I'll blather on for pages about you probably, bore her to tears. Sorry, sorry, you were in a conversation, but please do write if you ever need… Merlin, damned incredible! Cheers!"

With a wave he's gone, back around the corner to wherever the dragons are being kept, leaving me a little dazed and very speechless. Krum mutters a few words in Bulgarian. They are too low for me to pick up any meaning, but they sound rude.

"But, um, yeah." I pick up the thread of our dropped conversation rather uncomfortably. "I have to go talk to," I point over his shoulder, "some professors, I don't know if we're going back to the castle or not, but—"

For the second time, I am interrupted by my own name: "Linese!" I peer around Krum's shoulder and see Professor Babbling waving me over. I wave back and raise a finger to indicate 'one moment'.

"I need to, uh…"

He nods, but I detect disappointment in his expression. "Yes. Goodbye, Miss Nheeta."

My name is strange, transformed thus by his accent, and I give him a puzzled look. "Goodbye, 'Mister Viktor'?" I offer uncertainly. A brief smile crosses his face, and he walks past me presumably to go back to the Durmstrang ship. Shaking my head to clear it of his puzzling behavior, I turn and trot over to where my three professors and the bearded man still stand by the fence, speaking animatedly amongst themselves.

"Miss _Linese!_" the bearded man cries when he notices me over Professor McGonagall's shoulder. He bounds forward much more nimbly than his extensive girth would suggest possible and seizes my hand. "Such and honor! I never imagined! When Bathsheda wrote! My word! A talent like yours! Amazing! Dear girl! I never _dreame__d!"_ His large russet beard wags up and down with each of these excited sentence fragments and he's shaking my hand so hard that I fear for the integrity of my shoulder. "My _dear_ girl!" He releases my hand at last and I covertly check that my fingers all still work. "Sir Tibby, at your service." He doffs his soft maroon cap and bows gracefully. "I assure you, the honour is all mine."

I copy Viktor's sketchy bow from earlier. "Nita Linese, sir. A pleasure."

Professor Babbling steps forward. "Linese, this is Sir Tibby from the Euro-Glyph School, London campus. I took the liberty of inviting him to view your performance in the task. I'm sorry not to have warned you, but it wasn't certain he would be able to come until quite late."

Sir Tibby is beaming. "And I am so glad that I did! I am still reeling! My dear girl, you are amazing!"

I have never been so thoroughly praised before in my life, and I have no idea what to do. So I ignore it. "Is Tibby short for Tiberius?" I ask. Professor McGonagall purses her lips at me, but Sir Tibby just laughs.

"If only dear old Mum and Dad had been so creative! No, dear girl, I have the honour to be named Theobald Howard Walter Amos George." He wrinkles his nose. _"__Th__eobald_. Honestly."

"Would we all enjoy talking in a more comfortable environment? The Three Broomsticks, perhaps?" Professor Flitwick pipes up.

"Capital idea!" Sir Tibby agrees. "Drop in on Rosemerta. Merlin, I haven't seen her in a mortal age! Off we go then!"

"Erm… am I allowed?" I ask uncertainly. "It's still school hours, and I'm supposed to be—"

"Oh tush!" Sir Tibby calls. He's already some distance up the path. "You'll be with three teachers, and one's your head of house to boot." He looks at me narrowly. "I'm correct in that? Ravenclaw?"

"Gryffindor," I correct uncomfortably as Professor McGonagall pulls herself tall next to me.

"Oh, naturally, naturally!" He doesn't seem to notice my actual Head of House's steely gaze. Among students, that look is known as her Points Off Face.

It's a chilly walk to the village and I didn't bring my cloak or anything. The egg seems to be warmer than the ambient temperature, and I hug it as covertly as I can, trying to keep at least my hands from freezing. Sir Tibby doesn't stop talking the whole time. "…just tossed it to you! An egg it thought its own, and a golden one no less! Imagine convincing a dragon that anything golden could be responsible for any of its ills… the guilt of gold… ooh, the guilt of gilt, that's rather clever, isn't it? Amazing, just amazing…"

As we pass into the village, a thought occurs to me. "Um, Professor? Might I stop in a shop for a moment? I'm out of ink, and nearly out of parchment."

Professor McGonagall frowns down at me. "That should have been an errand for the Hogsmeade visit last Saturday."

"I know, but I was too busy trying to study for the task. I'll meet you at the pub in five minutes." I do my best to look very mature and responsible.

"Very well. Five minutes." I nod gratefully and dart down another street. From long habit in the Alley, I carry my purse with me at all times, so it's no issue to invest ten Knuts in two new inkwells and a sheaf of parchment. When I reach the Three Broomsticks four and three quarter minutes later, the teachers and Sir Tibby have taken a booth by the window and are already being served drinks.

"Ah, the guest of honour!" Sir Tibby says enthusiastically as I sit down beside Professor Flitwick. Madam Rosmerta thumps the last drink off her tray down in front of me, and I smell Butterbeer, a rare treat for me.

"Oh, but…" I protest weakly.

"Nonsense, my treat!" Sir Tibby waves my concern away. "Thank you Rosemerta dear, these look quenching as ever!" He takes a deep pull from his own foamy tankard.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Tibby, and you know it. You've still got to pay."

"You wound me!" he protests easily.

She shakes her head at him and turns her attention to me. "I believe congratulations are in order. I think it was your dragon we heard rattling our window-panes a half hour ago?"

"Probably," I admit. "She got a bit… um…" I trail off, at a loss for an appropriate adjective for the Horntail's emotional state. "Loud," I finish lamely.

"Clearly. Now, would you like to explain why my sister Marigold wrote me a very cross letter this morning asking why I hadn't told her you were a Triwizard champion?"

"Why is she so angry at everyone about that?" I ask incredulously.

Madam Rosmerta chortles. "Nothing to worry over, I shouldn't think. Enjoy," she says to the table in general and goes back behind the bar. I take a sip of my Butterbeer and smile at the delicious warmth that nestles in my stomach.

"Excellent!" Sir Tibby claps his hands and leans towards me across the table. "Now, let's talk about your application. When are you sending it?"

"November thirtieth, since my interview is on the twenty-first of December."

"Perfect. And how are your essays coming? What languages did you choose?" he asks eagerly. There is foam on his moustache.

"English, French, and Runes."

He raises his eyebrows. "Really! How singularly unusual! Wonderful, dear girl, wonderful! And your recommendations? I assume these three rascals are involved."

My eyes widen at the word 'rascals', but Professor Babbling only makes a little tsking sound and says "Tibby, really…" so I know it's not serious.

"Yes, all three of them have written recommendations for me, but I don't have a fourth. I haven't worked with anyone else on any kind of language. And Professor McGonagall hasn't actually done so either, she's only talked with Professor Babbling and Professor Flitwick."

"What! No fourth! With a gift such as yours?"

"There aren't, um, a lot of language opportunities at Hogwarts," I explain, for some reason abashed but also defensive.

"Well, perhaps someday you'll get to change all that, eh?" he winks broadly and grins.

I boggle at the idea. "I, er, ought to graduate Hogwarts before I teach there, yeah?"

He bellows an unprecedentedly loud laugh and thumps his fist on the table. "Yes, yes, priorities, dear girl, of course! Now, this troublesome recommendation issue: as of this second, I am waiving your need of it." He sees my mouth drop open. "Yes, yes, dear girl, I am able to do that! I intend to write a letter detailing everything I saw today which will stand in its stead. Amazing, just amazing! Dear girl, there is going to be a positive war over who will sponsor you! Ha-ha!"

We stay at the Three Broomsticks for a solid half-hour. Talk eventually moves from my Euro-Glyph School application to the Euro-Glyph School in general, which I find very interesting, to schools in general and Hogwarts in particular, which is less interesting, because the teachers censor themselves from saying anything exciting, since I'm a student.

We part ways outside the pub, Sir Tibby shaking my hand again and telling me how excited everyone will be to meet me at the interview. "And I'm sure we'll all be interested to see you in the second task next term, eh?" he says sunnily, leaving me in a cold sweat of preemptive stage-fright, then Apparating neatly away. Professor Babbling has errands to run so she goes deeper into the village, and I am left with Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall.

"Well, I'd say things are coming up right for you, Miss Linese!" Professor Flitwick cheerfully reignites the conversation once we're out of the village bounds.

"It might have been nice if Bathsheda had thought to invite someone who would take the situation a little more seriously," Professor McGonagall grouses. I see that she's not likely to forget Sir Tibby's assuming me to belong to Ravenclaw.

"Oh, come now, Minerva, he took it perfectly seriously. He's a jolly fellow by nature, surely, but he did our Miss Linese admirable service. Your application must be nearly ready to send now that the pesky fourth recommendation is a nonissue!"

It takes me a second to realize I am being addressed, but I nod when I do. "Yes. I ought to proofread them all once more, but yes, I expect I can send them off after that."

"Your owl may not be big enough," Professor Flitwick chuckles. "More than an inch or two of parchment would weigh him down too much."

"What? Oh, you mean Budge? He's not mine, he belongs to the post office in the Alley. He just really likes me, that's all."

"How peculiar. Most post office owls tend to be horribly ill-tempered."

"Most are. Budgin is young though. Oh, actually, do you mind—I've just remembered, I've got this letter to answer—is it alright if I go up to the Owlry instead of the castle?"

"So long as you don't break curfew, that is no problem whatsoever," Professor McGonagall says. Thanking her and bidding both of them good day, I jog off across the lawns towards the Owlry. In all the excitement of the day, Madam Malkin and Bigby's letter had completely flown out of my head. I dig through my pockets: my new ink and parchment take up one of the large ones one my robes, my wand and the little dragon figurine in the other, but then I find the letter in my skirt pocket. I reread it as I climb the steps.

_Dear  
__^Nita!  
__Why in the world did you not tell us that you were the Hogwarts champion in the Triwizard Tournament! I thought Randolph made it clear that we want to hear more from you this year! This is a hugely exciting development in your life! Why keep it secret? We're dreadfully excited for you, of course. Do tell us how the task goes. Much love and our very best wishes, M.P.M.B.  
_**That's better. Good luck. –Bigs  
**_PS, this owl seems very eager to take you our reply, so I expect you'll get this promptly. Write back soon! Tell us everything!_

I'm still puzzled as to their motivations and indignation, but at least I can do as they want and tell them all about the task. And then I suppose I can explain about Sir Tibby too, if that doesn't make it too long…

Budge shrieks joyfully when I come in and swoops down to perch on my shoulder.

"Hi, mate." I scratch his head and he coos shamelessly. "I haven't written the letter yet, so give me a minute." I take out a new inkwell and page of parchment, only to realize I have no quill. Fortunately, owls drop feathers all the time, and a quick slicing spell turns a large eagle owl feather into a perfectly serviceable quill. There's an old table in the corner, scored by owl talons over long years and splattered with poo, which I charm clean before laying my things down.

As with the last one, I open with a simple 'Hello' even though it sounds formal and cold. I can't address them as 'Madam Malkin and Bigby', that's stupid, and putting 'dear' in front of that would tip it over into the ridiculous.

Even though today is one of the most exciting days I have ever lived through, I can't find very many words to write about it. I give them the facts about the task, and how I won it, and then about Sir Tibby. It's not half a page long even with all that, so under Madam Malkin's compulsion to '_tell her everything!'_ I also mention Charlie Weasly's job offer and Krum's strange behavior and that it was completely unnecessary of her to write to her sisters about me. After that the page is full, so I sign it simply "Nita", fold the page up very small so that Budge can carry it, and toss him out the window. Then I head back up to the castle.

**A/N**

**This method of dealing with the dragon was one of the earliest ideas I ever had for Nita, and I hope you liked it! :)**

**Chapter 7, "Mysteries", will go up next Tuesday!**

**All characters (except for mine) are owned by JK Rowling, Warner Bros, etc.**

**E.I. signing out**


	7. Mysteries

_Chapter 7 – Mysteries_

I don't know why I don't anticipate the party that evening. After almost seven years of Hogwarts, I should have learned that Gryffindor takes even the slightest opportunity to throw a party. But it still catches me off guard.

I'm up in the dorm when the noise begins, stroking Edgar absently and reading intently. When I came up from sending Budge back to London, I'd rediscovered _Mating Habits of the Common Draccus_ where I'd tossed it on my bed that morning, and had decided to flip through it, since it had already made such an effort to get to me. After reading a few random pages in the middle, I'm thoroughly chagrined. Lochees goes to great lengths to describe the particularly expressive cries between a pair of nesting mates he once had the luck to witness. Had I read that before going in to face the Horntail, I might not have even been nervous. I'm glad I apologized to Krum, at any rate.

Kay comes in as I start the chapter on organic carbon's magical properties. "They're throwing a party for you and Harry downstairs," she says in her usual placid tone.

"What? Why?"

She raises her eyebrows. "You faced a dragon this afternoon."

"Oh. Right." Of all my peers, I mind looking silly in front of Kay the least. But I still don't like it. "I'll be down."

She leaves as I set the book aside and pull my shoes back on. Edgar latches on with his claws when I try to lift him to leave him on the bed, so I let him settle into my hammock-like hood as I descend to the common room.

The party is already in full swing. Someone has stolen a whole heap of food from the kitchens, and there are Gryffindor banners all over the walls with pictures of Harry flying on a broomstick around his dragon, and me with inarticulate speech-bubbles next to mine. Harry is already there, surrounded by several kids from his year and most of the Weasleys. Several people look at me doubtfully as I come out of the stairwell. I suppose I never stopped to think what it must have looked like to see me literally talk to a dragon, but their reactions to me now communicate it clearly: they're unnerved.

"Good one there, Nita," says Angelina Johnson, smiling hesitantly.

"Yes, well done," says serious-eyed Amar.

I nod awkwardly. "Thanks."

I meander towards the table of food, fending off congratulations and amazement as politely as I'm able. No one seems keen to actually talk to me, and most content themselves with a passing comment and a smile or a thumbs-up. I'm unspeakably grateful for this.

But once I'm at the table, perusing the selection and eying some custard creams, Gideon and Isaac accost me. They are like towering walls on either side of me, particularly Gideon. I frown and try to ignore them: a fruitless effort. Where the girls in my year became simpering bootlickers when I was chosen as champion, the boys only got sneakier about being mean.

"Well, well, Nita," Isaac says, pouring himself a drink as a pretense of being near me. "Dragon whispering, yeah? As if you needed to be weirder."

"And as if your ugly face and bad personality weren't enough to keep the boys off, now they're scared of you too," Gideon tells me conspiratorially.

"What are you two then, if all the boys are too scared to come near?" I murmur.

There is a pause in which I smirk, but then they renew the attack from a different angle. "So how loose did your mum's snatch have to be to fit a dragon's wang in there?"

"Not half as loose as your mum's one," I retort angrily. I'm not defending Mum's honour or anything, but any mention of her banishes reason and brings up rage, and that is what I act on.

"Oi!" Gideon grabs my shoulder and spins me around to face him. "You speak bad of my mum I'll rip out your goddamned—AHH!" Edgar rears up out of my hood and sinks his teeth into my assailant's hand.

Gideon reels away when Edgar lets go his hand, cursing wildly and bleeding freely from a couple of his fingers. "Fucking bitch!" he shouts at me.

"If you'd just stay away from me!" I shout back. "Should I break your nose too?" Isaac stiffens and backs away quickly at this suggestion.

A nervous fifth year Prefect hurries up. "Let's please not fight," she urges squeakily. "It's a party; let's not fight!"

"Some party," Gideon snarls. "Why are we celebrating this freak again?" He and Isaac storm away towards the armchairs in the far corner.

"You mustn't listen to them," the Prefect pleads. I search for her name and come up blank. Iris, maybe? No wait—Irene.

"Trust me, I never do," I mutter, snatching up a custard cream and breaking off a little crumb to reward Edgar for defending me. He licks the sweet cream off the tip of my finger and turns into a fat yellow canary. He flaps around my head, screaming.

"Oi!" I shout when the shock wears off. "Who jinxed the custard creams!" The Weasley twins hurry over, laughing. Almost everyone else is laughing too. My temper rises again, stoked by fear for my best friend.

"Sorry, sorry!" the twins call. "Canary Creams, our own invention! Seven Sickles apiece—bargain! Thanks for that, it's good to know they work on animals. He'll be back to normal in a few minutes when he molts." Their grins dim my ire somewhat, along with the knowledge that Edgar will be okay. I grab him out of the air and stick his head in my armpit to make him calm down, like I do to the more ornery owls in the post office.

Then someone across the room shouts, "Hey Harry, open up the egg, eh?" This is met by a chorus of approval, and Harry takes up his egg which had been residing on a table by the sofas. I find myself propelled forward till I'm just next to him. He smiles broadly at me.

Over the past several weeks, I'd not thought much about how Harry might be dealing with all of this Tournament business. I was vaguely aware that Slytherin was loving mocking him for Skeeter's article, but in more general terms I suddenly realize that I'd taken his pinched expression for granted and his current jolly grin is probably a lot closer to how he usually looks.

"You don't think it's cheating for us to look at the same one, do you?" he asks, not sounding very concerned.

I shrug. "If mine's different, you can have a look later."

Nodding happily, he looks down at the egg in his hands and digs his fingernails into the seam. The egg is hollow and empty, the same shiny golden metal as the outside. But a terrible shrieking wail is released as he opens it, slicing through the crowd and bouncing off the walls to become even louder. I clap my hands over my ears. Canary-Edgar screeches and tries to flap away but he molts out of shock and plummets to the ground instead. He dashes as quickly as he can towards the girls' staircase and I barge after him. "Shut it!" someone shouts behind me and the noise stops abruptly. I pull Edgar out from beneath the armchair he has taken refuge under and hug him against me. His heart is beating a mile a minute, just like mine, and I stroke him again and again till he calms down.

"What was that?" says a boy in Harry's year. "Sounded like a banshee… maybe you've got to get past one of those next!"

"Sounded like your mum last night, Wendell!" Gideon calls.

"I assure you, it did not," Wendell returns sniffily, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"It was someone being tortured!" says another boy in Harry's year, the one who got in so much trouble for losing the list of passwords that let Black in last year. "You're going to have to fight the Cruciatus curse!"

"Don't be a prat Neville, that's illegal," says one of the Weasley twins. "They wouldn't use the Cruciatus on the champions. I thought it sounded a bit like Percy singing… maybe you've got to attack him while he's in the shower, Harry."

I seem to have fallen out of general awareness, over in the corner with my trembling ferret, but that's fine: I'm too busy thinking. The voice is in the egg obviously isn't human. It's like nothing I've ever heard before. There is intelligence there though, certainly, and something of a cadence… it went too fast for me to be able to decipher any of it, but I thought Harry might have closed it before it was done. It felt… weird, not like regular talking, more like a song or something…

Without anyone noticing, I hurry up the girls' stairs and in my dorm. Casting a quick deafness charm on Edgar, I pull my own golden egg out of my trunk and finagle it open. As with Harry's one downstairs, a shrill wail batters my ears as soon as it's open. I'm prepared this time though, and only cringe. The message, whatever it says, is short, only a few phrases. I distinguish this only after listening to it several times through, and even then I'm only getting a ghost of the shape. Something about stealing something, or finding something…

But after a while Edgar begins scratching at his ears unhappily, and Kay comes up and says I'm disturbing the party, so I let it alone, give Edgar his hearing back, and go to bed. It's been a very long day.

After several days of deafening myself between classes and in the evenings, and seriously pissing off my dorm mates, I've constructed a very rough translation of the message in the egg. It goes something like,

_You find us: to find us_

_Come under the earth_

_An amount of time you have for looking._

_We take the precious thing,_

_Do you know what it is?_

_You find us or we keep it._

From this I discern that something that lives underground and lays eggs would steal something and I had a time limit to get it back. Unfortunately, understanding the language does not automatically clue me in as to what species is speaking that language. The only magical tongue I know is Gobbledegook, and there are dozens of others. And so, resignedly, I head for the library again.

By the end of November a week later, I have found nothing promising: there are species that live underground and species that lay eggs and plenty of species that like stealing things, but none of them overlap enough to make sense. I would have become frustrated, except that I finally finish my Euro-Glyph application and send it in on the 30th, and that's a quite nice accomplishment.

Snow has been falling softly for a couple of weeks by the time I venture out to the Owlry that shiny Wednesday afternoon. I'm bundled up in all the clothes I own and am pleasantly warm and decidedly cheerful. Having the application out of my hair will be an enormous relief, and I'll be able to focus more singlemindedly on researching the next task.

I've got a letter for Bigby and Madam Malkin in my pocket too. They haven't stopped writing after the first time, and I've written back, eventually giving up on wondering why they're doing it. I feel that my letters have gotten more boring, since nothing very exciting has happened to me since November the 24th. But I keep up, dutifully answering their questions about my classes and progress on the Tournament. So here I am heading out in the midafternoon sunshine, quite at peace with the world.

Budge assaults me as soon as I walk in, of course, and I quickly affix my note to his leg and send him off before he notices the much more substantial package of my application and tries to carry that off too. With the cover letter, fourteen pages of essays, and all three references, not to mention the note reminding the examiner that Sir Tibby waived the fourth, it weighs at least three times as much as Budgin.

I approach a dowdy-looking tawny owl, plump and fluffy for winter, and plenty big enough to bear the weight. I offer it to her. She eyes me for a long moment, then hoots resignedly and extends her leg. Cooing thanks, I tie it on and carry her to the window.

I feel that a vast burden has lifted from my back as I trek back up to the castle. There are three hours till dinner in which I can get plenty of reading done. I don't want to admit it in case it brings bad luck, but I'm feeling good about the next task, even if I can't find the species that's going to be stealing my 'precious thing'. But still, I have three months to figure it out. I'm sure I'll be fine. With these unusually cheerful sentiments in mind, I climb up to the library and select another few bestiaries to go through.

Immanuel Constantopolous's _Guide to Rare Reptiles_ and Leonard Aldopold's _Compendium of Magical Reptiles_ both prove useless over the next hour and a half. Thus far, the theory that the Tournament designers might have a reptilian theme is proving unfounded. I pull Alonso Verner Collins' _Magical Birds and Reptiles of the Continent_ across the table and flip it open.

Someone sits down across from me a few minutes later. I don't look up since I'm in the middle of a paragraph and researching how to survive the next task is definitely a lot more important than whatever this person has to say to me.

This paragraph is just as uninformative as all the hundreds of others have been, however, so I close it exasperatedly and look up.

"Hallo," says Viktor Krum.

I blink. "Hi."

"You focus very a lot."

"Yes, I know. …Do you want this book?"

"No. I vant you."

My eyebrows rise sharply. "Okay, I think we're having a communication issue here." Or maybe he's just really forward. Our conversation after the first task wouldn't have led me to think so, but I don't actually know.

His eyebrows sink in converse to mine and he shakes his head. "No. I say it too short. Vill you vant to go to the Yule Ball vith me?"

It strikes me that his accent is adorable, but I quickly squash the thought. _Not the time, Nita._ "I wasn't planning on going to the Ball," I answer truthfully. My information on th Yule Ball is sketchy, garnered from rumors and my dormmates' giggly conversations. "Parties aren't really my thing."

His face settles deeper into its scowl. "You haff to."

"I _have_ to?" I repeat, incredulous. He is definitely _not_ adorable, I decide, and entirely too forward after all. I stand up, gathering the half-dozen books scattered on the table into a haphazard stack. "Thank you for your time, Mister Krum, but I have better things to do than make a fool of myself on some dance floor, no matter how _famous_ you are." I turn on my heel and stomp towards the door.

"Vait," he calls, earning angry looks from students studying around us. "Ve are champions."

I spin around and hiss, "What the hell has that got to do with anything? I seriously doubt Fleur Delacour and Harry Potter are going together."

"No," he replies, coming towards me around the table. "Ve haff to go to the Ball because ve are champions. And I vant you to go vith me."

I'm stuck on the first part. "Champions _have to_ attend the Yule Ball?"

"This is vat Karkaroff says to me."

"Since when?"

"It is the tradition," he replies gruffly.

He slightly misconstrues my question, but I let it pass. I'm not used to being caught flat-footed and indignant like I am now, and I can see no graceful way to go forward.

"Oh. Well. Sorry, then, for, um… I didn't know we were…" I draw myself up straight. "If we're required to go—_if_ we're required… I'll go with you," I say firmly. I ignore the fact that my heart is beating like I've just sprinted a mile, and the fact that I can feel my face pinkening, and the fact that my hands are sweating for no reason whatsoever. I also ignore the way his eyes light up and his shoulders straighten and his lips curve up just ever so slightly. I ignore all of that and just hurry out of the library and hurry up to Gryffindor Tower and hurry to my bed and bury my face in the pillow and grin like a maniac.

I have Transfiguration the next morning, but even that can't dampen my weird elation. Going to the Yule Ball holds zero appeal for me, but for some reason going to the Yule Ball _with Viktor _is dreadfully exciting. I spend the whole lesson telling myself I'm a stupid prat for being so excited just because some stupid boy I don't even know that well asked me to a stupid party, but the only result of my private reprimand is that I do especially poorly on the spell we're learning Professor McGonagall is cross with me.

As we're all packing up, Professor McGonagall calls for our attention. "Now, I understand that those of you who have done your research have been spreading rumors about the Yule Ball." All of the girls sit up straighter. "These are true. The Yule Ball is a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and will start at eight o' clock on Christmas Day in the Great Hall, ending at midnight. Dress robes will be worn. This will be an opportunity for us to socialize with our foreign guests and – ahem – let our hair down." She pursed her lips in a critical way. "However, be assured that the standards of behavior will be JUST as strict as they ever are! So remember that before considering any… tomfoolery."

The bell rings and everyone springs from their desks and into conversations that seem as though they've been going for hours already. "Linese—a word please!" Professor McGonagall calls, but I'm already approaching her desk.

She gets right to the point: "You should know the champions and their partners are expected to open the Ball by dancing—"

"Dancing!" I squawk.

She narrows her eyes at me. "Yes, dancing."

"But—I can't dance! I don't know how!" The last time I did anything even remotely resembling dancing was at my primary school's Valentine's Disco ten years ago. And that hadn't gone very well.

Professor McGonagall sighs and removes her spectacles. "It has been tradition for as long as the Tournament has existed that the three Champions open the Ball by dancing with their partners. There may be four champions this year, but that changes nothing. Now, there will be waltz lessons for anyone who wants them. A notice will be posted on the board in the Entry Hall later today."

Another problem occurs to me: "Wait—I can't go to the Ball."

"And why is that, Miss Linese? Are you making plans to be particularly ill that evening?"

Ignoring her tone (and the humiliated blush rising in my cheeks), I forge ahead. "Professor, these are my nicest robes." I sweep my arms down my sides, indicating the fraying cuffs, the spot near the collar where Edgar chewed, and the speckled brownish stain on the sleeve from Potions a few weeks ago. "I _can't_ go to the Ball like this." Did that sentence really just come out of my mouth? Lord, when did I turn into Cinderella?

She purses her lips. "Surely you could buy something more fitting during the next Hogsmeade visit."

"No ma'am," I counter stubbornly. "I'm broke." Revealing my financial status to my Head of House is hardly high on my list of fun activities, but it's my only option. Maybe she can Transfigure my robes into something more 'dressy'. Merlin knows if I tried that, I'd wind up with tatters and knots of thread.

McGonagall frowns. "Are you not able to ask your mother?"

"With all due respect, Professor, I'm not talking about her."

"I understand." I let that gross untruth slide for the moment. "Well, Miss Linese, let's just let this rest for a time. Perhaps something may come up."

I've never been any kind of actor, and I don't hide my skepticism well. "Alright, ma'am."

"I trust the robes are the only impediment? You will have a partner?"

"Oh, er, yeah, I do. I just have to tell him yes, properly, now that we're required to go after all."

Her lips twitch. "Very good. Have a pleasant day, Miss Linese."

'So much for help from her,' I think sourly as I head up to the library. 'Maybe I can steal or borrow something from India or Kay… they're as skinny as me, if taller.' But short of that, there really is nothing I can do. I have five Galleons and sixteen Sickles to my name, not nearly enough for proper dress robes, as I know from Madam Malkin. And even if I had money, a fancy party dress would be at the bottom of my priority list.

That afternoon I rationalize that studying for the Tournament is a much better use of my time than worrying about some stupid ball. Even if Viktor Krum asked me to go in his adorable accent, even if no one has ever seriously asked me out before and it was the most flattered I've ever been in my life.

I focus painstakingly on my studies for the rest of the day, and manage to stay fairly single-minded till the mail arrives the next morning at breakfast. I ignore the flood of owls after ascertaining that Budge is not among them, so I choke on my tea when a twine-wrapped brown paper package falls onto my plate.

I stare at it for a minute, totally befuddled as to what to do. Did the owl miss? Did I order something in my sleep or something? There's a tag attached and I reach to turn it over: _Nita Linese, Hogwarts, Scotland UK_. Definitely me. But still, who would send me anything? Why? It's nowhere near my birthday…

A dark thought crosses my mind: I am a Triwizard champion. One of the others might have targeted me after my performance with the dragon. I can rule out Harry (probably), and Viktor (I hope), but Fleur might… And even besides, other people care about the outcome of the Tournament. It is a widely known secret that Ludo Bagman supports Harry, and most likely has money riding on him. Might he take some drastic action? Or someone else I don't know about?

These thoughts in mind, I stuff down the last of my breakfast and dash from the Hall, planning to open the parcel in some secluded corner where a sabotage attempt won't damage my ego as the rigged birthday parcel had.

Moaning Myrtle's loo serves the purpose, and I swiftly lock the door and set the package on the counter. It doesn't move, or smell funny, or do anything at all actually. It feels soft and squishy except for some little poky corners, but that doesn't mean anything. I raise my wand and cast an unwrapping charm, lifting my arm to guard my face as I do. The twine unravels itself and the paper crinkles open and I flinch in spite of myself—

Nothing happens.

I lower my arm a tiny bit.

A glint of gold reaches my eye through the folds of brown paper. My heart jumps: has someone accidentally posted me their great-uncle's inheritance? That would solve several of my problems.

Dropping my arm entirely, I pace forward. There is indeed gold in the package, but it's not metal coins: it's cloth. I poke at it in puzzlement. It acts exactly like cloth should. I pick it up gingerly with my thumb and forefinger. Why in the world would anyone send me cloth? I stick my wand in a pocket and pull the cloth out of the paper all the way. Something clatters to the floor and I look down and see a shoe. A glittery high-heeled shoe that's gold like the cloth. Hampered by my own incomprehension, it takes me several seconds to understand that the cloth in my hand is in fact a dress.

It takes a minute to get it sorted out and have a proper look at it, but once I do, I'm floored. The cloth is shiny and gold, and seems to be made of tiny interlocking plates, like fish scales, only soft and supple. I know only a rudimentary smattering of information about fashion from helping Madam Malkin on Rachael's days off, but the style is simple, with a flat, high neckline, cap sleeves of transparent gold chiffon, and a mid-length skirt that would flare if I spun about. It's gorgeous. But who would give me such a thing? It has to cost upwards of ten Galleons. The only person I've talked to about it is Professor McGonagall, and _she_ wouldn't do this for me, would she?

But… _Nita Linese, Hogwarts, Scotland UK_ says the tag. That's me, no question. So… I have a dress now. Not knowing who the gifter is bothers me, the same way it once bothered me that Tom took me on out of pity. But even though this dress doesn't solve as many of my problems as a package full of gold would have, it does help me out considerably, and I'm in no position to reject anonymous charity, even though it irks me. I fold the dress carefully, retrieve the shoe and rewrap the whole bundle and push it into my bag. I've got Charms soon, and Potions after lunch, and somewhere in there I've got to find Viktor and accept his invitation properly.

The school has become spirited since yesterday with the knowledge of the Ball. Clumps of girls twitter and giggle in corners, boys swagger, or alternatively look like they'll keel over from nerves. And it's not just my year: everyone from the fourth-years up is permitted, and younger students are too if they can get an older student to ask them. That's why I'm not surprised when a spotty third year asks me to go with him while I'm on my way to Charms. Well, I am surprised. But not confused. I turn him down, of course, and am puzzled when he looks disappointed and angry. Surely he has better options than me… someone he's talked to before, for instance.

Charms is a storm of whispers and flying notes, and Flitwick gives up on the lesson about halfway through after we prove we're not going to pay a lick of attention. The class breaks off into smaller groups, and gets down to serious politicking. Whose social position is well enough matched so that they should go together? Is it _very_ scandalous that Amar asked the sixth year Slytherin Prefect Zadie, or only slightly scandalous given that his older sister was in Slytherin? Who were all the Quidditch players going with? Who are the _champions_ going with?

I tune all of it out and open my latest reference book, Christin Archibald Moraru's _Magical Mammals A—G_. The other two volumes are up in the dorm, waiting to be as useless as the first has been so far.

"Hey! Nita!" breaks through my concentration twenty minutes on. I look around and see a knot made up of Rosemary, Roger, Alexandra, Isaac, and another Ravenclaw boy, Nigel. They are all looking towards me and smiling, some more nastily than others. Isaac is the one who called to me.

"What."

"Wanta go to the Ball with me?" They all splutter with laughter.

"No." I go back to my book.

"Hey, don't knock what might be your best option! What are the chances you'll get a better offer, huh?"

I nearly laugh. "Quite good: I've already got a partner." Alexandra sits up straighter, affronted by the idea that _I_ could get a date before her. Rosemary, who's already going with Roger, merely raises her eyebrows and leans back against his chest.

"Oh! Who's the lucky fellow?" Isaac snips.

"None of your business," I mutter, hoping they'll drop it and knowing they won't. I don't want them to push this too hard because I have not yet technically accepted Viktor, so I'm not telling the complete truth.

Isaac hops off the desk he's sitting on and saunters towards me, blue eyes alight. "I think you're lying," he says, leaning forward till I can smell his breath.

"Think what you want." I jut my chin at him. "I don't care."

"Why're you blushing then?"

"I'm not," I retort, but I am, I can feel it. Before he can say aught else, the bell rings, signaling lunch and temporary freedom till Potions. Relieved, I stuff my things into my bag and hurry down to the Great Hall. Two other boys stop me and ask to take me to the Ball, a sixth year Ravenclaw called Will Slatten and the Head Boy, Jeremy Tennith, which I suppose my classmates would have had to approve of, social prestige-wise. Turning them both down with the excuse that I've already got a partner makes me nervous: what if Viktor has reconsidered? I wasn't very polite to him, after all. And I only agreed conditionally. What if he got a better offer, or found someone nicer? Then what?

The Durmstrang delegation is coming in from the grounds just as I reach the marble staircase. I'm one of the last to get downstairs and the Entry Hall is nearly empty. Viktor is there in the lead next to Karkaroff. He spots me the moment after I see him and his expression sharpens immediately. I find that my legs have stopped taking me down the stairs, but anxiety has disconnected my brain from my body again, so I don't try to restart them. He says something to Karkaroff, who nods obsequiously, and he hurries up the stairs towards me under the curious glances of his classmates.

"Hallo, Nheeta." He is nearly as tall as me even though he's standing two stairs lower, and I focus on the bridge of his nose rather than his eyes. I have to concentrate.

"Hi. Um… Does your offer still stand?"

"Yes," he says seriously.

"I'd like to accept it. Properly. So thank you for asking and I'd love to go to the Ball with you." It all comes out in a rush and I have to take a deep breath to recover.

He does not quite smile, but the way his chest expands and his eyes widen is somehow better. "I am glad to hear this," he says earnestly. "I vas sure you vould turn me off."

"Why?" pops out before I can think about it.

To my surprise, he blushes. "Every day I vould going to the library to see you, but you alvays look very angry, and I vould not be able to say something."

"You were there every day to see _me?_" I repeat disbelievingly.

He nods. "You vere very direct and courtee…courtee-oos to me vhen ve vere chosen as champions. This is rare for me now because of the Qvidditch. I haff liked you since then."

"You liked me just because I was nice to you?"

He shakes his head. "No. Everyvone is nice to me. You treat me like a person who is normal."

Something about his logic still seems fishy, but I decide not to push the point. I'll mull it over later and see if it makes sense. "I suppose I'm a bit thick for not noticing before," I try cautiously.

He shrugs. "You vere busy vith other things. Vould you like to go to lunch now?"

I nod agreement and we descend and go into the Great Hall. The meal in full-swing already, and I start off to the right, but he says, "Vould you like to sit vith me? My friends are cure… curious." He gestures to where the Durmstrang students sit with the Slytherins, a couple of them looking at us interestedly.

"I can't. Or, I'm not really supposed to, that is. You're sitting with Slytherin, and I'm a Gryffindor, see?" I point to my red tie. "Each House gets its own table. We don't mix."

He frowns confusedly. "This is a strange way of do it. At Durmstrang ve sit vith who ve vant."

I shrug. "Well… Here's different."

We stand facing each other for a several awkward moments, separated by a few feet of flagstone and very different cultures. Finally, he asks, "Then, vill I see you later?"

"Of course," I agree, a little too eagerly, then blush and turn and stomp between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables with my head down, furious at my inability to not look like an idiot around him. I take my usual spot at the top of the table, a short gap between me and several giggly second-year girls whom I ignore. I'm half-way done with my food before I realize that I should have invited him to sit with me. The resounding smack of my palm against my forehead makes the second-year girls startle, but then they dissolve into giggles again.

I am such an idiot.

The Durmstrang students have left by the time I finish eating, or I would have spoken to him again and tried to repair my misstep, perhaps by inviting him to eat supper with me, even though the thought makes my stomach lift weirdly. So instead I spend my free hour in an empty classroom with Moraru's _Magical Mammals A—G,_ then go to the dungeons for Potions. It's no less unpleasant than usual, so I've a pounding headache as I climb up through the rest of the castle with my classmates. Hating Snape as thoroughly as I do after he confiscated my wand, it takes a great deal of self-control to stay civil in his class, let alone deferent. I decide to miss dinner and go to bed early instead.

Edgar is happy when I climb into bed with him. I have spent a lot of time in the library lately, and he feels neglected. He snuggles close against my neck and purrs, and I run a finger across his thinning fur. My mind wanders back to the golden egg's clue after a while. None of the bestiaries have come up with anything useful, and I'm running low on promising ones. I wonder if I ought to take a different tact with my search. Maybe I ought to look for a kind of animal that sings to communicate rather than one that lives underground and lays eggs. Those are rarer, from what I've read. I'm more likely to be on the right track if I find a singing animal. Though it's not as though I've found any of those yet…

I wonder how the others are doing with it. I never hear the singing message from the boys' rooms, but Harry could use a Silencing Charm like I do. I wonder, briefly, if I should tell him what I know. He did let me in on the dragons… But even if I do tell him what I know, he'd only be in the same position as me, and I'm not getting anywhere. I wonder about the standard of teaching magical languages at the other two schools… It's possible Viktor or Fleur could actually know—Viktor!

I bolt upright in bed, shocking Edgar out of his drowse. He chitters at me angrily but I can hardly hear him over the pounding of my heartbeat. I am a fool! How could I have forgotten? It's not as though we agreed to eat together or anything, but it probably looks like I'm avoiding him now. And even if I were to go down now it would be too late. The faint Friday night noise from the common room started about half an hour ago, indicating the end of the meal. I lie back onto the mattress. Edgar grumbles at me, but I pet him till he subsides. What is it about Viktor that makes me act like such a moron? I'm accustomed to being sensible and level-headed. That's how I've made it this far. A frivolous person would not have been able to deal with my life.

"_Efferyvone is nice to me. You treat me like a person who is normal." _

What must that be like? I've had a taste of it since being chosen as champion. What I wouldn't give to go back to nobody noticing me… Being an international Quidditch star would be a hundred times worse. To never be able to walk down the street without being bombarded by requests for autographs, or dates, or whatever it is must be buckets of trouble. I feel a little silly for complaining so bitterly about how everyone's attitudes towards me have changed over the last month and a bit. I can't imagine being so sick of everyone that I'd fancy the first person who treated me normally.

**A/N**

**I like the problem of her being able to understand the egg message but then having to do a ton of research to try and figure out what they actually are. That tickles me. **

**Chapter 8, "Interview", will go up next Tuesday!**

**All characters (except for mine) are owned by JK Rowling, Warner Bros, etc.**

**E.I. signing out**


	8. Interview

**Text is *asterisks* is dialogue spoken in Gobbledegook. It'll be clear what other languages are by context.**

_Chapter 8 – Interview_

Professor Flitwick has officially given up on lessons. Even though it's the 13th, still a week until the end of term, he lets us do whatever we want during his class hour. I use the time preparing for my upcoming interview at the Euro-Glyph School by having conversations with him in Gobbldegook. My interview is scheduled for the afternoon that classes get out, Wednesday the 21st. Only a little over a week away: I'm starting to get nervous about it.

*I wish it were a rule that the end of term was easier than the rest of it,* I grumble. Professor Babbling had given me a pile of work to accomplish over break, and there are rumors that Snape is going to do an exam on the last day of class.

Professor Flitwick chortles. *You say that to the teacher who has stopped giving homework?*

*And trust me, we all appreciate it,* I hasten to say. *It's everyone else.*

Just then a Hufflepuff named Gemma Joy begins to cry for some reason and Professor Flitwick hops off his stack of books and hurries over to her. I sigh and survey the classroom. Sixth- and seventh-year classes are taught with students from all four houses, and that's how we mostly arrange ourselves. There's some mixing: Rosemary and Roger bridge Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, for instance. Bored, I tune in on the nearest conversation, happening around a clump of desks just to my left. Rosemary, Alexandra, Kay, Isaac, Roger, and a few others are talking about graduation. Specifically, the gifts they're expecting for graduation.

"My dad's going to get me a job at the Ministry," Rosemary says, tossing her hair. "And they've agreed to pay rent on my flat for the first year. That way I'll be able to live in London and be close to Roger." He leans round and kisses her on the cheek. She looks smug.

"I reckon I'll try and follow Oliver Wood and go for professional Quidditch," Roger puts in. "When I tell Mum and Dad, they'll go in for a Nimbus, or even a Firebolt."

Chet, one of his Beaters, groans jealously.

"I'll be getting a car," Isaac says. "It's a hand-me-down from Millie, but it's only a year old and she barely used it. I bet I can enchant it to fly like Potter did a few years go." Laughter at this.

"When my sisters graduated, they both got forty Galleons in gift certificates to Madam Malkin's and Twilfit and Tattings," Alexandra boasts. I sneer to myself at the mention of Twilfit's. Everyone knows they're inferior to Madam Malkin's. "And Roberta got engaged, but Thomasina went to study magical theory in America or something. Stupid Ravenclaws."

"Oi," Roger protests sharply.

"Your parents must have been dying for a son," Isaac says. "_Robert_-a, _Thomas_-ina, _Alexander-_a…"

"Yes, my mum especially," Alexandra replies evenly, missing or ignoring the barbed edge of his tone.

"You can have some of Kay's brothers," Rosemary says with a grin.

"I quite like my brothers, actually," Kay replies mildly. "What about you, Amar?"

"I am going to travel for a while after here," he says thoughtfully. "That's what Roz did. Our parents paid for half, and say they will do the same for me."

"I heard Wendell's sisters got really nice dresses for their debut parties," Alexandra comments enviously.

"You know Valerie Smith, the Hufflepuff Prefect?" Rosemary says in confidential tones, and the group leans in. "Apparently her mum runs Madam Blanche's Lingerie Shoppe in the Ally, so she's giving her a job as a clerk with opportunities to advance, you know, to the floor."

"No!" Alexandra exclaims just as all the boys shout "YES!" and high-five one another. They've obviously got no clue how Madam Blanche's works. The floor workers do not walk about in examples of the merchandise.

"Go Valerie's mum!" Isaac cheers.

"Merlin, I couldn't imagine what I'd do if my mum tried to get me into the family business." Chet shudders. "She breeds poisonous tarantulas."

I wonder what it would look like if Mum tried to get me into the 'family business'… Both of us in her apartment in Tower Hamlets, constantly drunk and miserable and fighting when neither of us are on shifts at the factory she might have eventually gotten me a job at. The thought clenches deep in my gut like a tumor. I would sooner die than go back there.

I must make an unconscious noise of disgust, because my classmates are suddenly looking at me.

"And what are you getting for graduation, Nita?" Rosemary asks with exaggerated politeness.

"A diploma I earned myself, a job I got myself, and more schooling based on my own merits," I say shortly, looking steadily out the window at the drifting snow.

I have a free hour after class, so I find an empty classroom and set about writing a couple of letters. Madam Malkin and Bigby want to know if I intend to go home to the Ally for Christmas or not, and how things are generally going, so I tell them things are generally going well but that I won't be back for Christmas because the champions have to be at the Ball. Our missives have become short and easy, often no more than a couple of sentences long. The other note I have to write is somewhat trickier. In the ten days since I accepted his invitation, I have not managed to work up the nerve to talk to Viktor again. It's not entirely my fault: it seems that every time I enter the Great Hall for a meal, the Durmstrang group is just leaving, or vice versa. Granted, I am not trying very hard to see him. The thought of spending time with Viktor makes my stomach lift and twist uncomfortably in something akin to nausea. But I'm done. It's ridiculous to be scared of simply spending time with someone. It's not something I have an overabundance of practice with, but I know how to talk to people fairly well just from listening so much.

All this in mind, I pen a quick note:

Hello Viktor,  
I know we haven't spent any time together like we said we were going to do. So, do you want to have an early breakfast on Saturday and then walk around the grounds? Sincerely,  
Nita

I hate how the words look on the page. They scream of my every insecurity and go in expecting rejection. I don't sound feminine at all, and I didn't even write two lines! It'll look like I barely put any thought into it at all.

I redraft it three times, but each time it comes out worse, so I go back to the original. I dash down to the Owlry before lunch and send Budge on a quick mission to the Durmstrang ship, making sure he understands he's to come back after visiting Viktor so that Madam Malkin and Bigby can get their letter too. The whole time he's gone flying down to the ship, I pace the floor, running my hands through my hair so frequently and with such force that it must resemble, as Professor McGonagall once put it, a giant golden cotton ball.

Once both letters are safely off, I go back to the castle for lunch and Potions.

The next day at breakfast, a tap on my shoulder brings me up from the depths of my Defense book. I look around somewhat blearily, not having slept well the previous night, but come wide awake when it turns out to be Viktor at my side.

"Hi," I say, sitting up straight even though it hurts my burn.

"Does your offer still standing?" he asks seriously.

I blink, then start to smile. "Of course."

"Then I vant to accept you rightly. Thank you, and I vould liking to eat vith you and valk vith you."

"Good! Great! Um… do you want to meet here at eight?" That would be miles before anyone else woke up on a Saturday.

"Yes."

Unaccustomed to smiling, my face feels stiff from it, but I can't seem to stop. Even when he walks away, even when the bell rings and I go back to my book for the free hour before Defense, even when Defense starts and I'm partnered with Athenias Ash, my face keeps its idiotic expression. I'm cognizant enough to keep a hand on my wand at all times, at least. At the end of the lesson, Professor Moody calls "Linese! A word!", but even then I keep grinning like an idiot. Maybe I'm sick. I go to his desk as the rest of the class leaves, casting me curious glances. I would be curious too. I _am_ curious. I don't think I'm in trouble: I had only hexed Ash a _little_ harder than I needed during the lesson, and I hadn't shouted at anyone.

"Professor?" I say blandly. I haven't spoken to him outside of the classroom since he failed to recognize me near the beginning of term, and I'm not sure how to interact with him here unless I'm in trouble, and I don't think I am.

"How are things going, Linese? Classes, friends, Tournament?"

"Uh…" Caught off-guard by the incongruency of the situation, it takes a second to gather the response. "Classes are fine, friends are fine, such as they are, Tournament's going well. Sir."

"Yes? Going well?"

"The Tournament? Well, I mean, I've mostly deciphered the egg's clue, so now I'm researching what kind of creature it could be…" The fierceness of his stare is beginning to unnerve me. "That's not going extremely well, but there's two months till the task and plenty more books in the library. So yes, all in all, I'd say it's going quite well."

"Listen, Linese," he growls, blue eye whizzing counterclockwise. It's very distracting so I focus on the chunk missing from his nose instead. "The next task won't be like the dragons. You won't be able to bull through on gumption and weird linguistics talents. You'll need to be prepared."

"I am preparing—"

"I can tell you what you'll be facing."

The determination of his tone strikes wrongly with me somehow. Why does he want me to know so badly? Does he think I won't be able to figure it out on my own? I can, I know I can. It's just a matter of time, and finding the right book.

"Teachers aren't supposed to help," I remind him uncomfortably, as though it might have just slipped his mind for a second. He's obviously aware of the rule.

"Bending the rules is as old as the Tournament itself." He sounds impatient.

The Gryffindor in me digs her heels in. "Thank you, sir," I say firmly. "But I'm making perfectly satisfactory progress on the clue for the next task. I don't believe assistance will be necessary." I revert to the manners I've picked up from years of observing shop keepers deal with nasty customers: gracious but implacable.

He fixes both of his eyes on me for a long second. "If you say so, Linese." His tongue flickers out across his lips and he gropes inside his robes for the flask he's always drinking out of. As ever, he coughs and shudders, but then the flask disappears again and it's out of my head. "Go to lunch then," he snaps, suddenly terse and unfriendly. Startled, I hurry out, heart beating fast.

The rest of the week passes with no further weirdness, but abruptly it's Friday night, with only ten hours to go till I agreed to meet Viktor. Why, why, why did I do that! Anxiety gnaws at my innards like a live animal, twisting my guts and shortening my breath every time I think about it. I sleep badly and wake early, far earlier than I need to. It's not even six o' clock. I slump back into bed, rubbing my eyes and trying to ignore the nerves already building in my stomach. What in god's name is it that makes me so susceptible to him? Objectively, he's not the best to look at. Objectively, he hasn't talked to me very much. Objectively, there is no reason for me to be so nervous about this.

But I am not objective. And I really like him. And the thought of spending time with him later is killing me. And I hate it. And I like it too.

I try to lie still and go back to sleep, but all I manage is to make myself even more agitated. Eventually, I toss aside the blankets and dress in the semi-light, grabbing what's closest, perfectly aware that nothing I own looks very good, so I can't dress to impress. The castle is silent at this early an hour, and I wonder if there's a morning curfew, a time before which we're not allowed out of dorms. I've never had cause to think of it before.

The Great Hall is empty, of course. My footsteps echo far too loudly, and the little hairs on my neck prickle up and down. I take my usual seat just below the teachers' table and watch the ceiling, trying not to think. Big fat flakes of snow drift from fluffy grey clouds, making the sky into a collage of shifting white. Somehow the quality of this waiting is different from waiting to face the Horntail. With the Horntail, I could have been waiting for my death. Here and now, the worst I could be in for is an uncomfortable morning. But somehow it's worse.

Food appears forty minutes on and I pour myself tea with relief. With something to keep my hands busy, I'm a little calmer. A few professors take their seats and start their meals, but no students appear yet. Breakfasts on weekends are not heavily attended.

I'm starting to wonder whether I've been stood up when he appears in the doorway, still dusted with the snow he's just come in from. He sees me and comes forward purposefully. My head is reeling like a balloon let go by a careless child, and my nerves quadruple when he sits down and says, "Good morning, Nheeta."

"Good morning. …How are you today?" I grimace. That's a thing to say to customers, not… not international Quidditch stars lonely enough that they want to take you to the Yule Ball just because you don't fawn over them.

"I am vell. It is fery simple to vake up early vhen the sun comes in your eyes."

I peer up at the dim ceiling in confusion before realizing Durmstrang must be at a higher latitude than Hogwarts.

"Haff you eaten yet?"

"No, just tea."

"Vhat vould you want?" He moves as if preparing to wait on me.

"Oh, well, no, that's—I mean, thank you, but I… the fried tomatoes?"

He obligingly serves me several and reaches for a platter of sausage, saying, "There a fery much foods to choose from here at Hogvarts. At Durmstrang ve are eating only vun thing for the meal. Vhere does it all come from?"

"House elves," I say, remembering Granger's S.P.E.W. campaign.

He nods as if it were some deep revelation, and we eat in silence for several minutes. He eats an athlete's breakfast, heavy on the meat and eggs and milk and an apple at the end. Besides the tomatoes, I have more tea and toast with marmalade. I never get breakfast during the summer, and my stomach doesn't appreciate a lot of food early in the morning even when it's available. We don't converse as we eat, for which I am grateful. Bigby and I never talk much when we have dinner together, and lunch at the pub is always a quick and isolated affair. I try to eat slowly to make sure I'm not waiting for him to finish his larger portion, so we're done at the same time.

"Vould you like to valk now?"

"Yes," I say, standing so abruptly that I nearly tip the bench over backwards. He doesn't seem to notice, and we walk to the end of the Hall on opposite sides of Gryffindor table without looking at each other. When we reach the door, however, he gives the same slight bow as the day of the first task and offers me his arm. I stare at it for several seconds, uncomprehending, before slipping my arm through his, blushing hotly. I turn out to be glad for it though, since it's still snowing outside and my cloak is not the best.

Fighting to get the words out through anxiety, I ask, "Would you like to see the Quidditch pitch first?"

"Certainly."

We wade through the drifts, sometimes melting a path with magic if they got too high. We're both breathing too hard for conversation: I'm not an athletic person, and trudging through deep snow is as far from his sport as it's possible to get. When we get to the pitch, I lead the way up to the top of one of the towers and charm one of the benches free of snow. I don't make it a real priority to go to Quidditch matches anymore, but I went to them a lot in my earlier years, and the pitch looks just as odd covered in snow as I remember. It's like the back of an enormous white beast, just waiting for some unlucky flyer to crash into it and wake it up.

"Who others does your school play?" he asks once we've been sitting quietly for a minute.

"Sorry?"

"The team of your school for Qvidditch."

"Oh, we don't have a team for the whole school. Remember when I mentioned Houses that the students are divided into? Each House has its own team, and they play against each other every year."

"Vould you explain to me this Houses? I haff been troubling to understand this and I cannot." He looks at me with frank curiosity and I flush to the roots of my hair. Direct, positive attention is so new for me, so strange, that I haven't yet found a way to deal with it that is both flattering for the other person and acceptable to society as a whole while also expressing my excitement and confusion. I duck my head and launch into an explanation of the four founders and how we celebrate them by keeping the Houses that represent their valued attributes. I try to keep it simple due to the language barrier, but I'm not sure I succeed. I'm dying to ask him to speak a little Bulgarian so that I can learn it and solve the problem altogether, but I don't. I've got the feeling that I don't know him well enough for that yet.

"…so all of the House teams play each other every year for the Quidditch Cup."

"Do you play for the team of your House?"

I scoff, and try to turn it into a hollow little cough when I remember I'm sitting next to an internationally famous Seeker and disrespecting his sport may not be the wisest. "No, I'm not. All first years get flying lessons, but I was rubbish at it. I was so disappointed because all the witches in stories ride broomsticks and I wanted to be like them, but I couldn't manage at all."

"More visards than vitches play Qvidditch," he says confusedly. I purse my lips to prevent myself from smiling at his accent.

"I know that now, but I didn't know I was a witch when I was a kid. I'm Muggle-born." As soon as the words are out, anxiety smothers me. What if he shares the views of the Slytherin blood purists he eats meals with? What if he doesn't want to go to the Ball with me because of it? What if he calls me a Mudblood? It would hurt much more from him than it does from Ash and her clique.

"You did not grow up with Qvidditch?" He sounds curious and confused. "Then… vhat did you do vith your friends?"

I smile, relieved and amused. "Football, kick-the-can, tag, skip rope, hula hoop, conkers…" I avoided playing house with the girls at my school because even then I resented Mum. "Those kinds of things."

His face holds monumental confusion. "You kick cans for fun?"

"It's a real game," I reassure him. "With rules and things. It was fun as a kid. My friends and I used to…" I trail off, remembering long gone days of Mum and no magic. Things I try not to think about anymore. I decide I'm getting too personal and hastily change the topic. "Two boys in my year tried out for Beater positions for our team in third year, but the Weasley twins got them instead. You should have seen how angry they got: it was hilarious."

"Funny is vhen other people fail?" His tone is neutral, but I hear the disapproval.

Realizing how it sounds, I flush sullenly and mutter, "It is when the two boys have been horrible to you since the very first time we met." So much for not getting personal. I stand abruptly. "Let's go walk around the lake."

I've already turned away by the time he says "Fery vell," and rises to come after me. I silently berate myself as we descend the tower: for just a moment there when we got to talk about flying, things felt good, things felt natural. But then I had to get all personal and awkward and all the nerves from this morning are back full force now. I look like a vindictive brat and he must be regretting coming out with me. I would regret coming out with me if I were him. And if I hadn't already ruined things, I had decided to walk around the lake of all things! He lived on the bloody lake: why would he want to walk around it? I'm an idiot.

"Vhy is the snow ofer there fery disturbed?" he asks suddenly. I look to where he's pointing and smile a little in spite of myself.

"That's the Whomping Willow."

"Vomping Villow?" he repeats and I grin full out. Maybe I'm glad I don't speak Bulgarian. I would be missing his accent.

"Remember I mentioned it at the Wand Weighing? It's been there about forever, I reckon. I'm not sure how, but it's this kind of tree that can move around and stop things getting near it. Look." I scoop up a handful of snow and compact it into a sphere. I've OK aim and it soars in a high arc towards the Willow when I throw it. Almost languidly, one of the branches swings around to meet it and the snowball vanishes in a puff of white. "Cool, eh?"

He is staring in amazement. "Do all of the Hogvarts trees doing this?"

"No, the Willow's the only one. It might be unique, I'm not sure."

He shakes his head in evident disbelief. "There is nothing of that in the lake, correct?"

"Well, not unless you count the giant squid…" I take the initiative and start walking again.

He follows, frowning. "Vhat is 'sqvid'?"

"Er… a great big sea creature with tentacles? Arms?"

"A kraken?"

"Sort of, but smaller, and the giant squid is perfectly nice."

Because I am careful, conversation proceeds perfectly reasonably with no further awkward personal stuff getting in the way. I tell him about the Creevey boy falling in the lake at the beginning of the year and the squid pulling him out again, but he doesn't look convinced. He speaks of sometimes hearing a weird patting sound on the outside of the hull of the Durmstrang ship, and now attributes it to the squid. We compare the sorts of lessons that are given at our schools and tell each other a little about our classmates. I learn that the Durmstrang group has a student remarkably similar to Wendell: a son of a minor Russian noble family named Eduard Poliakoff. I repeat with amusement the ridiculous plots I've overheard my classmates concocting to get him to date them, which he reacts to with familiarity and a sort of resigned amusement. By the time we think of checking the time, it's already past lunch, and I reluctantly confess that I have homework to do. We part ways at the front doors of the castle, but he calls me back after I'm a few steps inside.

"Vait! I haff a qvestion."

My heart speeds up for no reason. "Yes?"

"For the Yule Ball, ve should dress to match. Vot color is your dressrobes?"

"Oh," I say, relieved, though I don't know about what. "It's gold."

He nods in satisfaction. "Good. Ve vill look vell together."

"Okay, good." I repeat. "Actually, for the Ball… do you want to meet in the Entry Hall, or should I come down to the ship, or…?"

He considers the question seriously. "Grand enterings are amusing, but if it is fery cold, you should not come here." I nod, picturing the strappy, open-toed shoes that came with the dress. Even if it is warm for mid-December, it will still be freezing. We'll see though. After all, a grand entrance would be more fun than he knows. I make my way back up to the castle, something warm and golden glowing in my chest. Even if we got off to a rough start, we recovered and had had a perfectly nice day. Even though I'm hungry from missing what is usually my main meal of the day, it's worth it. Everything looks better in this mood: the torches brighter, the portraits friendlier, Peeves amusing rather than annoying. Even the Fat Lady, whom I usually find irritating, is fine when I give her the password and pass through the portrait hole.

The first thing I notice upon entering the common room is that Rosemary is sitting on the sofa in front of the fire, sobbing noisily and surrounded by the rest of our dorm-mates, who are all endeavoring to comfort her. Content that I have nothing to do with it, I head for the stairs.

Her sudden shriek arrests my progress. "GO DIE, NITA!" I turn and stare at her in genuine shock and confusion, but this expression only seems to worsen her temper, and she dashes past me up the stairs with a prolonged sobbing wail similar in character to the voice that emerges from the golden egg. I look to the other three in askance. I don't mind if I ever upset Rosemary, but I do prefer to know what exactly I did.

"Roger dumped her," Alexandra says with tones of gentle wisdom.

"What's that got to do with me?" I ask.

"He's going with Fleur Delacour now," India explains, leaving me no clearer on my guilt than before.

"Again, what has that…?"

"She's angry at all the champions right now, that's all." Kay to the rescue. "You, Harry, Viktor Krum, Fleur especially, obviously…"

"There's a term for that, and it's 'misplaced blame'," I say, wondering how I'm supposed to retrieve my Transfiguration homework with a bitter Rosemary roosted in the dorm.

Kay smiles. "Yes, well. Who among us hasn't gone daft for a boy before?"

I feel my face colour. Guilty as charged.

Over the next few days, our dorm hears little but Rosemary's complaints and fury towards her ex. We learn that he was always shallow and petty and that all he cares about is a pretty face and she deserves better anyway and she's going to find such a better date than him that he'll be wild with jealous envy and come crawling back to her after all. Little though I like Fleur, I think Roger probably made a step up in terms of quality of romantic partners. Naturally, that is a private opinion, as I would rather avoid being screamed at again.

But of course, I have far more important things to think about: now that my nerves over spending time with Viktor are safely in the past, all I have to worry about is my up-coming interview at the Euro-Glyph School. I'm not accustomed to living with so many concrete sources of anxiety, and it wears on me. Time drags and flies at the same time, and it's suddenly the twenty-first, the last day of classes and the day of my interview. It's a Wednesday, and classes let out at noon, so I arranged with Professor McGonagall for her to Apparate with me down to London directly after lunch. I am practically made of wood all morning. I don't retain a word of what Professor Moody says in Defense, and lunch might as well have been cardboard for all I know. I abruptly find myself walking down towards the front gates with Professor McGonagall. Her explanation about the Anti-Apparation wards around Hogwarts goes straight in one ear and out the other. I do catch that I would know all of that if I had taken the Apparation course the previous year, but only because I have to quash an impertinent comment about my classmates relying on their parents for most things, such as food, clothes, and money.

When we are a distance from the gates, Professor McGonagall instructs me to take hold of her arm. Curious, excited, and momentarily distracted, I do as she says. We stand still for a moment, and then, with a flicker I fell through my whole body, we are twisting through liquid darkness, I am breathless and lungless and frightened. But then my feet hit solid ground and I suck a deep breath and press a hand against my stomach. When my head stops spinning, I discern that we are in a narrow side street in the abandoned warehouse district, only a half-block from the address I'd tried to visit over summer. So I had had the address right!

"Did they give any indication how long this interview is to take?" Professor McGonagall asks. "What time ought I return for you?"

"I don't know, they didn't really say. I can't imagine it taking more than a half hour or an hour."

"Having met Sir Theobald, I can," she mutters, and I smile a small smile. Sir Tibby was plenty talkative that day at the Three Broomsticks, to be sure. But I don't know if Sir Tibby is the one conducting my interview or not. I know there are six main teachers at the London campus, but I don't know how the interview process actually works. Probably I'll only be speaking to one or two of them. "Nevertheless, I'll return in an hour. Need I wish you luck?"

"I suppose it can't hurt," I mumble, suddenly nervous again.

"Then good luck." She takes a smart step and Apparates away.

I sigh gustily and run my hands through my hair, realizing too late that I've probably ruined its carefully combed neatness. Irritation overtaking anxiety, I stride swiftly out of the side alley and knock loudly on the door of the Euro Glyph School of Extraordinarily Languages.

"It's open," a voice calls, so I push the door open and step inside.

I find myself in a surprisingly normal looking office. I'm used to 'magical schools' being 'Hogwarts' and it takes me a second to adjust to the regular desk in front of an open door, filing cabinets and shelves lining the walls, and uncomfortable-looking chairs grouped in the corner. A cheerful woman a few years older than me sits behind the desk, with a big toothy grin, a long dark blonde ponytail and a red and green jumper.

"Hi!" she says. "Are you Nita Linese? We've been expecting you. I'm Suzy, Suzy Sunday, I'm a student here."

"Pleasure," I say after the moment it takes my mind to catch up with her enthusiasm.

"Let me see who's around to take you in," she says happily, and cranes around in her chair to peer through the door behind her. "Hm, it doesn't seem—oh, Edwin! Edwin, come here!"

A man appears in the doorway, close to Suzy's age or a little older, with dark hair and a navy blue button-down shirt. They look to be within the age-range that we would have overlapped at Hogwarts during my early years, but I have no recollection of either of them except that Suzy might have been Keeper of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team for a couple years. "Is this her?" Edwin asks eagerly, smiling broadly. I startle a little at the familiarity of the question.

"Indeed it is," Suzy agrees.

"Brilliant!" He thrusts a hand forward. "I'm Edwin Flum, such a pleasure, we've heard so much about you from Sir Tibby."

We shake hands. "Er, I'm sure it all got a bit, uh, overblown in—"

"Well, of course it did," Suzy agrees, waving a hand dismissively. "But even if you take out the exaggeration, the facts are still amazing. I know Miss Zeldin's dying to know if any of it's true, but don't let her know you know or she might get miffed. Edwin, would you take her in? Do you know who's doing the interview?"

"No idea," he says regretfully. "I can't imagine Sir Tibby would want to miss it, given how much he's been talking about her, but I don't know if he's allowed given that he's already met her and has, you know, preconceived ideas."

"They've all got preconceived ideas after everything he's said." Suzy rolls her eyes. "Well, cross your fingers you don't get Professor Vinnoy. They're up in two-ten. Good luck!" she calls as Edwin leads me through the door and into a long hallway.

Edwin talks all the way through the short walk, which is only up some stairs, around a corner, and halfway down another corridor. "Now, you'll figure out how to play it once you see who you have, but unless by some miracle you've only got Sir Tibby and Master Jerome, I would really play up the manners, since we've got some touchy people here. Really, Professor Vinnoy and Madam Surebeak are the two you'll have to watch for—Vinnoy's American and Surebeak's _ancient_, you'll see—so all in all I think you'll be fine. I mean, if anything I've heard is true, you're practically guaranteed a spot here. After all, I'm rubbish with languages: I'm only here because Gringotts wants me to learn Arabic and Modern Greek before they send me abroad, so natural talent doesn't have much to do with it. It'll be fine, you'll see. This is really just more of a formality. Here we are." He knocks on a nondescript door marked 2-10 and the low babble of voices behind it ceases.

"Enter," a woman calls. Edwin pushes the door open for me and reveals a room with a circular table with six people seated around it.

"What, all of you?" Edwin exclaims.

A very old—indeed, ancient—woman in the middle of the row frowns severely. "Yes, Mr Flum, all of us. Now pick up your jaw and get back to your work, if you please."

"Yes ma'am," he says hurriedly, gives me one last wide-eyed nod, and hot-foots it back the way we'd come.

"There was no need to frighten him, Enid," says a man on the far left end in a too-big tweed suit with an almost painfully bright bowtie and an unself-conscious comb-over.

"It's no fault of mine if he's easily startled," the woman, who must be Madam Surebeak, returns. The man on the far right end of the row snorts.

Sir Tibby intervenes now, standing from his chair next to the tweed-clad man and inviting me in with a smile and a jovial "Don't be worried dear girl, it's just a little conversation, no need to be frightened of us!"

Judging by Edwin's reaction to seeing all six of them in the room at once, that is a monumental lie. But nonetheless, I step inside, careful to keep my chin up and my back straight no matter that my old burn complains. It wouldn't do to make a bad impression, particularly since Madam Surebeak has just made her views on cowardice more than plain.

"Please take a seat," Sir Tibby encourages, and I sit in the chair facing the rest of them across the table, which seems huge now for some reason. "Welcome! We are so pleased you made it. Everyone is extremely excited to meet you." The man on the right snorts again. "Introductions!" Sir Tibby doesn't seem to have heard his colleague's derision. "On my right here is Master Jerome Leroy, visiting Professor of Extant Human Tongues. He looks harmless, but trust me: he's a devious scoundrel out for my job."

"Miss Linese, I'm honored and excited to meet you. And Theobald knows I've no interest whatsoever in his job." His eyes sparkle playfully and I decide to like him.

"Jerome, on pain of death, it's Tibby or nothing." He turns back to me. "We've met already, so no need to rattle off that list of names again. I am the _resident_ professor of Extant Human Tongues." He gives a swift but still elegant bow. "On my left here is Regina Barlock, Professor of—"

I interrupt without thinking, as usual. "Barlock! I read your treatise on the action of the double negative last year! It really made me think about the role of culture in language development, a sort of chicken-or-the-egg type of—I mean, I'm sorry, there's time for that later." Barlock looks remarkably pleased though. She's younger than anyone else at the table except me, small and plump, with glasses that suit her face and a complicated-looking knot of dark brown hair at the nape of her neck.

"Thank you. Please call me Regina. I'm supposed to be in charge of Linguistics here. May I call you 'Nita'?"

"Please," I agree eagerly.

"Well, this looks quite promising indeed!" Sir Tibby exclaims happily. "Now, on the other side of dear Regina, we have Madam Enid Surebeak, Grande Dame of our little School and Professor of Dead Human Languages."

Madam Surebeak nods archly. She is extremely old, as I noticed before, but she bears herself straight and proud with her snow-white hair wrapped around her head and very elaborate stiff-looking robes. She's that particular kind of skinny reserved for very elderly women, but her eyes are sharp and fierce.

"Beyond her, we have Miss Melvina Zeldin, Professor of Extinct Magical Languages…"

Miss Zeldin is a slender, beautiful African woman with robes of brightest silk and rows of very tiny braids laid flat along her scalp. She regards me with keen interest, and I recall Suzy's warning. I nod to her and she inclines her head in return.

"And last but never least, Professor Dragor Vinnoy, Professor of Extant Magical Languages. I expect you two will be working together extensively in the future." It's the snorting man. I hope my grimace isn't too obvious, but knowing me, it is. Not that his expression is too polite either. He has one of those blocky faces that looks angry through both nature and long practice, and he's slouching back in his chair like there are about a million places in the world he would rather be. His rotund gut strains against the buttons of his shirt and his hairline is beating a hard retreat from his forehead.

"Great," he announces, hitting the vowels and Rs hard in that distinctly American way. "Theobald brings in his latest and greatest wonder child and dumps her on me. Just what I needed."

"Dragor, you should be excited to have the opportunity to sponsor a student with a talent like Tibby has described," Regina admonishments, sending me a sympathetic glance. She would have to learn that it takes more than that to damage my feelings.

"And that's something I want verified," he rejoins. "Tibby's famous for his wild exaggerating, and I would not be surprised if this is all just smoke and mirrors."

"Her recommendations say otherwise," Master Jerome points out. His tone reminds me of Kay when she is settling disputes in the dorm: very calm and mild.

"I have my own doubts about those," Madam Surebeak announces. "Finishing the Ancient Runes curriculum by sixth year is one thing, but for someone to master Gobbledegook in two months at the age of twelve tests the bounds of credulity."

"You don't think Filius and Bathsheda would lie, surely," Miss Zeldin protests.

"Better teachers than they have stretched the truth for the sake of a favoured student," Madam Surebeak replies smartly.

"Please, please, this is meant to be an interview, not an argument!" Sir Tibby looks distressed. "We have the student right in front of us to verify all this."

My temper, which had been threatening to bubble over and do what Sir Tibby did in a much less polite manner, simmers down again.

Sir Tibby turns to me. "Dear girl, do forgive us. We're a tempestuous lot, but we mean well." Professor Vinnoy snorts. "Why don't we begin again." He settles into his chair and laces his fingers together and says in a formal and somewhat ridiculous voice, "Miss Linese, we have heard rumors of you that are honestly a little hard to believe. Now, you are in the Triwizard Tournament, is that correct?" I nod cooperatively. "Yes, good. And for the first task, you were meant to somehow get past a live dragon to retrieve a golden egg, correct?" I nod again, waiting for him to stop play-acting and get to the point. "Now, according to eye-witnesses—" He winks at me. Professor Vinnoy snorts. "—you accomplished this by somehow communicating with the dragon. True?"

"Yes, sir."

"Miss Linese, you will forgive us if we are skeptical…" I struggle not to raise an eyebrow. "But would you mind explaining exactly _how_ you did that?"

That's more like it. "As I said in my first essay, I've always had the ability to understand any language someone speaks to me if I can have a minute to decode it. There's a part of my mind that just… understands the meaning of things. I can't describe it. One of the first clues I had that I was a witch—I'm Muggle-born—was when I was at the zoo and one of the monkeys there told me they took her baby away. Animal languages are the easiest since there's never any kind of grammar to parse, it's just emotion and intent and very basic ideas, like 'hunger' or 'sad', for instance, put into sounds. Human languages are the easiest after that because no matter how disparate they may sound, the same kinds of minds came up with English or German or Mandarin or Latin once upon a time: human minds. The point of those languages is to communicate with other humans. That's why magical languages like Gobbledegook are difficult. Minds completely separate from those of humans came up with something no human could ever conceive of. If you give me a solid hour and someone proficient to teach me, I can learn any human language on the planet to the point of literally complete spoken fluency. I won't be able to write or read it better than anyone else, but I'll speak it fine. Magical languages are a lot harder. You read it took me two months of consistent lessons to learn Gobbledegook from Professor Flitwick, and I'm trying to figure out another one right now for the Tournament and it's really hard. So to answer your question, all I had to do with the Horntail, since it was an animal, albeit a magical one, was get it to give me a key, so to speak, of its set of emotive sounds and replicate them to get what I wanted. Did any of that make sense?" I'm a little out of breath: I haven't spoken aloud this much since… had I ever spoken this much?

"Very little," Professor Vinnoy drawls.

I purse my lips at him. "Is there a specific point you would like clarified, sir?"

"A demonstration, I feel, would not go amiss," Miss Zeldin suggests.

"Yes," Regina agrees eagerly.

"In which languages are you proficient, Miss Linese?" Master Jerome inquires.

"English, French, Gobbledegook, and I can scratch some German together. You can test me with anything else."

"How exciting!" Sir Tibby claps his hands together. "Let's just go around, shall we? Jerome, let's start with you."

Master Jerome looks thoughtful for a moment, then speaks. "Wǒ xīwàng nǐ shuō de shì shìshí, yīnwèi zhè hěn yǒuqù."

I listen deeply, hearing something of a wish, and the truth, and fascination, but then it all coalesces. "I _am_ telling the truth!" I exclaim hotly. Then, in the same language he had used, which I'm pretty sure is one of the Chinese languages, "I am not a liar, and I do not do stupid things just for attention." I would have liked to say 'notoriety', but I couldn't find it fast enough.

He smiles placatingly. "I'm pleased to hear it, Miss Linese." He nods to Sir Tibby who steeples his fingers and grins at me. »Mislim, da bo naš prijatelj na koncu moral pojesti svoj odnos.«

After the moment it takes me to understand that he's talking about Vinnoy, in what I think must be an Eastern European language of some kind, I grin as well. "I'm looking forward to it."

Regina smiles ruefully when my attention passes to her. "I don't speak another language besides very bad French and some Russian, but I would love to talk more about the double negative article later, if you'd like."

"I can't wait," I agree, and we smile at each other happily.

"In litteris Dolabellae pr pecuniae redactae." Madan Surebeak commands. I hesitate. That was almost definitely Latin, but she's the professor of extinct human languages, so anything she speaks will have only the inferred pronunciation, making it harder for me to understand. She has to repeat herself a couple times, but I eventually get it and rattle off "Alpha beta gamma…" all the way to "Omega." She shows no outward sign of approval, but she seems to relax a tiny bit. She reminds me of Professor McGonagall actually.

Miss Zeldin is next, ready to fling some dead magical language at me. This shouldn't be easy…

She lifts her chin a little as I focus on her, and draws a deep breath. The sounds she emit are low and gentle and warbling, a ululation of shifting keys and tones. It puts me strongly in mind of whatever comes out of the golden egg, but in the way that seeing a friend's sibling would put me in mind of the friend. They're related, but not the same. I have to sink deeply into the sounds to get even a ghost of their meaning and I'm just starting to get something when she breaks off with a gasp. "Oof! That's impossible on the diaphragm."

Her speaking voice is melodious with a strong accent that's beautiful to listen to.

"You were asking me something about school, right? I didn't catch if you meant this school or Hogwarts… what language was that?"

"Atlantean," she replies gravely. "As close as we can figure that it sounded."

"Wow… I don't think I'm going to focus on dead languages, but that was amazing."

Miss Zeldin nods graciously. "You have exceeded all of our expectations, I believe." Vinnoy snorts. "You should focus on your strengths to reap the fullest bounty of your talent." I decide to like her too.

And last (but never least) Professor Vinnoy awaits. I think I've made a good impression on everyone else, but since I'll be working most closely with him and Sir Tibby, I want to impress him. He doesn't need to like me: just respect me.

He gazes out at me through half-lidded eyes, like a fat, mean old cat about to squash a younger, smaller kitten. Hopefully the kitten would be dexterous enough to escape harm.

Abruptly he leans forward in his chair. I tense as though I really were about to spring away. *Why do you wish to come to this school?*

*I know Gobbledegook already,* I reply, startled.

*Then answer.*

I blink, taking the moment to consider his question. *Because I'm good with languages. I want to learn more of them and more about them. Because this place can get me where I want to go in life.*

He switches to something else and my mind protests at so sharp a swerve. I listen as hard as I can: I will not ask this sneering man to repeat himself. I catch perhaps the last third of the sentence: {You see this School as a means to an ends then.} I've no idea what he's speaking, just that it's magical in nature, and therefore difficult.

I struggle to keep up, misplacing my emphases and contorting my throat wrong, but I get the words out. {How is this attitude different from Edwin Flum's?}

He switches again, and my anger stirs, but I crush it down. The eyes of the other five teachers are on us, and even if Vinnoy refuses to respect me, I know I must be making an impression on the others. And maybe because I'm warmed up from talking with the others already, these are coming to me slightly more easily than they have in the past. +Gargling does not constitute speaking the language.+

+This is the first time I've heard these languages!+

+You are becoming ridiculous,+ he snarls. +No one learns languages in the space of a breath!+

+What do I have to do for you to believe me!?+

+Tell the truth!+

I find that we are learning towards each other across the table, so I sit back and adopt a relaxed attitude before he can. In English, I say, "I see. You're used to being the best, aren't you?"

His face turns an admirable shade of scarlet. Still in the previous language, he spits, +I hope you do come here. I shall enjoy ruining you.+

I reply in English again: "Now really, sir, just because I'm the only one who can understand you is no excuse to be crass."

The rest of the teachers give him scandalized looks. I smirk at him. His face turns a hitherto unknown shade of maroon. He stands up so fast his chair falls over. "When we get to it, I vote 'no' on her admittance." He stomps to the door, blowing it open with a curt wand gesture, and disappears into the corridor.

Master Jerome chuckles into the following silence. "Taking on Dragor without even being admitted first. That takes something, all right." Despite no one seeming upset with me, the immediacy of my satisfaction is fading. Vinnoy may be an arse, but he's Professor of Extant Magical Languages, and as such will probably make up about half of my curriculum. Alienating him was really really stupid. Well, too late now.

Another brief silence ensues before Sir Tibby rescues us. "Well, at least now we can get on with the interview-proper, hm?"

Everyone seems to recollect themselves and renew their attention on me. I find myself nervous again.

"I was particularly interested in the essay you wrote in runes," Master Jerome prompts me, and I jump at the subject, eager to be away from my ruinous misstep with Vinnoy.

"I enjoyed writing that one. Since runes do not have direct vocal cognates, I had to figure out a way to try and join up the ideas they represented. I drew a lot from hieroglyphics and Professor Babbling had to help me a lot, and by the end I still wasn't sure it was understandable. It was more like art that writing, and I'm not very creative."

"Yes, mechanically it was only average," Madam Enid agrees, and I flush.

"Average for you or I," Sir Tibby protests. "For a student of only four years' learning, it was quite impressive."

"Enough on runes," Regina cuts in. "Let's talk about the French one."

"The linguistics teacher wants to talk about idioms, of course," Miss Zeldin says wryly.

"Melvina dear, be kind," Sir Tibby admonishes.

"Tibby, we're all adults," Madam Surebeak snaps. "But I also would like to discuss the second essay. It seems to encapsulate your interest in the intersection between language and culture. Expand on that, please."

I nod eagerly. "The way I see it, idioms are the key to a culture's values. They're like a code laid over the plain language. For instance, if I were native to France or Germany and learned English the way I learned those other two, I would have no idea 'piss off' meant 'I hate you, go away.' Sorry for the rude example. But to really understand where that phrase came from, you have to understand the culture very deeply. I can speak any language I set my mind to, but I only speak it literally. Idioms are mysterious nonsense to me until the piece of culture that birthed them is explained. See?"

"But you could do it from the other side as well, surely," Regina protests. "You said it yourself; idioms can be the _key_ to culture, not necessarily the other way around."

"You might be able to discern its values," I agree. "But many cultures have similar values while having very different sets of idioms, and at what point can we draw the line between a pair of cultures that have almost everything in common except their languages?"

Master Jerome speaks up now, referring to the many countries he has lived in or visited—and it seems there have been a great many—and reciting various idioms which demonstrate the core values of each culture. I, who have no experience of any culture outside of my own, listen eagerly and ask every question I can think of. I've no idea how long we all speak, but Regina materializes a pitcher of water and glasses at some point and I realize I'm dearly thirsty. I've never spoken at such length and with such enthusiasm before, and I'm parched. The next interruption is Madam Enid pulling a small silver watch out from a fold of her robes and making a surprised noise. "What time is it?" Miss Zeldin asks with her beautiful voice.

"Quarter past four."

"My word!" Sir Tibby exclaims. "How time does fly! Dear girl, you must have been expected back at school hours ago!"

"No, Professor McGonagall agreed to Apparate me here and back. Oh my god, she must be so impatient by now! I need to go!" They all stand at once, talking over one another in excited but reluctant goodbyes. Regina is saying something about the two of us writing an article together, perhaps with the help of Master Jerome; Sir Tibby is already looking forward to the second task in February; Miss Zeldin is apologizing for having kept me so long; Madam Enid is telling me to give Professor McGonagall, her regards.

I find that I'm happy when I step out into the corridor. More than that, I'm giddy. There's a bounce in my step unlike anything I've felt before, and my face is stuck in an idiotic smile again. The walk back to Suzy's front office is shorter even than I remember, and she looks amazed when I walk in.

"Did they only just let you go? You've been up there for hours! Edwin told me that all six of them were there to interview you: how did it go? Did Miss Zeldin like you? How was Vinnoy? Everyone's sure he and Snape must be long lost cousins somehow."

"I'm pretty sure I've ruined any chance of ever getting along with Vinnoy, unfortunately, and he left about twenty minutes in. But everyone else seems amazing. Regina already wants to write an article with me, so that's exciting."

"Wow, she only lets people she really likes call her Regina." Suzy looks impressed.

"I might have accidentally buttered her up when we were introduced," I say sheepishly.

Suzy shakes her head knowingly. "Clever girl. Anyway, McGonagall was here to pick you up more than two hours ago, but she got bored and left instructions for you to meet her at the Leaky Cauldron when you were done. Do you know how to get there from here?"

I smile a little. "Yes, thanks. Did she seem cross?"

"No crosser than usual. I expect I'll see you quite a bit next year. Good luck with N.E.W.T.s and the Tournament!" She gives a cheery wave and I let myself out onto the street. I am buoyant and swift on the walk back to the pub, even though I anticipate Professor McGonagall's impatience.

I find it very strange to step into the pub with neither my trunk nor the intention to do any work, but comforting as well, as though it were a piece of a real home I were being welcomed back to. Even with these thoughts in mind, it startles me to see the group gathered at the bar: Professor McGonagall, Tom, of course, but also Mary, Rachael, Bigby, and Madam Malkin.

"Here she is," Mary calls as soon as I step inside and they all stand up at once.

"And look, she's surprised to see all of us," Madam Malkin tuts, as though she had expected nothing different.

I step forward hesitantly. "Well… yes. How did you all…? I didn't even know I would be here."

"Minerva told us you had your interview today and would be coming here afterwards, so I sent Mary to Madam Malkin's, and here we all are," Tom replied cheerfully. "And you certainly know how to keep a body waiting."

"Er, yes, sorry." I address this mostly to Professor McGonagall, who nods what I hope is forgiveness. "There are some really talkative people there." Not the least of which was me. My jaw still hurts a little from having talked so much.

"So it went well?" Mary asks.

"Come sit down before you talk," Madam Malkin encourages and I move to take the seat they all move away from to offer me. Tom thumps a drink down in front of me when I'm seated and I take a welcome drink. My throat has become sore during the rest it had on the walk.

"Well?" Tom prompts at last.

"I think it went well… One of them really hated me, but I made it easy." Bibgy laughs deep in his throat, two short chuckles that wring a rueful smile from me too. "One thing I'm indisputably good at, I suppose."

"But the rest liked you? How many people were there?" Mary asks eagerly.

"All six of the main teachers, which I guess is really unusual. The student who showed me in couldn't believe it."

"Your talent is unusual," Professor McGonagall says loftily. "It's appropriate for them to take you seriously."

"Well…" I say, a little embarrassed. "It was good, I think. One of them wants to write an article on idioms with me, so—"

"And there you have it!" Tom says jubilantly. "Little Nita's future nice and sorted!" I startle a bit at 'little Nita': to my knowledge Tom has never called me that before. "Now, who feels up to an early supper?" So with a barman's ease he has us all seated and happy over plates of thick stew. Between mouthfuls, I tell them a little more of the interview, and Tom and Mary give me Ally news and Madam Malkin berates me gently for not telling her and Bigby that I would be in the city and Professor McGonagall watches the whole scene over her spectacles as if supervising a class. At one point when I turn from Rachael and Mary, who seem to have made friends over me, to tell Bigby something, I find that he and Madam Malkin are deep in a low-pitched discussion with Professor McGonagall, so I let them be.

But eventually the little clock behind the bar chimes six and with cheerful farewells and promises to write soon, I step outside with Professor McGonagall and she Apparates us away back to Hogwarts.

**A/N**

**...in which the author gets to exercise her sophomoric but enthusiastic interest in languages and linguistics, and also have a cute fun time writing Viktor and Nita start figuring each other out. I hope you enjoyed it!**

**Chapter 8, "A Pleasant Evening", will go up next Tuesday!**

**All characters (except for mine) are owned by JK Rowling, Warner Bros, etc.**

**E.I. signing out**


	9. A Pleasant Evening

**There's quite a bit of dialogue in Bulgarian in this chapter, but I haven't bothered marking it. It'll be clear by context. :)  
**

_Chapter 9 – A Pleasant Evening_

I get a lot of mail in the days after my interview; so much that I struggle to keep up with it. I get letters from Bigby and Madam Malkin, as usual, but also letters from Regina Barlock and Sir Tibby and Master Jerome. It has me so busy that I barely notice the days passing and suddenly it's the evening of the 24th, Christmas Eve. The only thing that clues me in is that the decorations in the Great Hall change. After that my nerves come back: the Yule Ball is tomorrow. My letter to Bigby and Madam Malkin is short and awkward after that, and I sign off with an abrupt 'Merry Christmas — Nita'.

If I were the sort of person to pace, I would pace. I _wish_ I could pace. I think pacing would help me work off some tension. I've no idea how to dance, since I skipped the lessons that were offered, but the dancing is only part of it. I'm less nervous about spending time with Viktor than I was before we spent that day wandering around the grounds, but this time it's a combination of being with him, dancing in front of the whole school, and the dress. It's silly and pointless, but logic can't kill it, no more than my anxiety can cause time to stop.

I wake late on the 25th, which means that I have to actually interact with the other girls in the dorm. Rosemary and India shrieking is what wakes me up, and at first I think someone is dying or something, but it's just them opening presents. I start to roll over with Edgar, pulling my disused pillow over my head to drown them out, but an unfamiliar weight on my feet disturbs me. Glaring out blearily, I see a moderate pile of packages at the end of the bed. I blink at them and they don't disappear, so I sit up, rubbing my eyes and cradling Edgar against me. I'm not used to presents, and still am not sure how to approach them. Eventually I reach for the small squarish one in red paper with a pattern of bells and holly. The small note on top reads in Madam Malkin's graceful hand, _I dare say this will suit you. Have a very merry Christmas. Love, Marigold B. _I pull the paper off with interested excitement and find a flat rectangular box of the sort jewelery comes in. I remember my seventeenth birthday with a grimace, but push the memory out of my mind. Within the box is a strand of small obsidian beads, interrupted periodically with green, yellow, and red beads of either glass or smooth crystal, I can't tell. I pull it out and see it's a necklace that looks just long enough to fit over my head. There is no clasp and as far as I can tell the string might begin anywhere. It's very beautiful. I've never owned jewelery before except for the bracelets with big plastic beads themed after Disney princesses from when I was a kid. I slip it over my head and it somehow adjusts till it fits close but not tight around my neck. I touch it gingerly, wondering if I'll be able to get it off again.

I reach for the second of the three packages, the big squishy one with a white ribbon and brown and blue striped paper that I recognize as coming from Madam Malkin's own shop. The paper removed, I find myself with a beautiful dark green cloak in my lap. It's thick and luxurious, supple and warm with a handsome golden clasp on the front. I run the thick cloth through my fingers in amazement. Such a cloak as this has to go for upwards of six or eight Galleons. It's gorgeous. I lift it up to get a better look and a small notecard flutters down into my lap. I grab it before Edgar can start chewing on it, and read in Bigby's familiar blocky script, **I told her you'd look like a dandelion, but she insisted. Happy Christmas. – Bigs**. I grin.

"Wow Nita, that's beautiful," says Kay, whose bed is next to mine. I look up, forgetting to smooth my expression.

"Isn't it? My, er, aunt gave it to me."

"That was nice of her."

"Well, she's not quite my aunt, she's really just a friend… Actually they're sort of like godparents, I guess…?"

"Okay," she says with a somewhat quizzical smile. I blush and duck my head.

The last present turns out to be two books. The first one is titled _25 Easy Charms for Difficult Hair_ by Robin Quincy. I raise my eyebrows. I don't think of my hair as particularly difficult, but maybe that's only because I always chop it short and let it do what it wants. I imagine if I ever tried to make it do anything fancy, like lie flat for example, it would become very uncooperative indeed. The other one is far more interesting. It's an anthology of linguistics articles that includes Regina's one on double negatives. Edgar squeaks protest as I accidentally hug him too tight from excitement. Pulling the drapes around my four-poster, I get dressed in whatever I can grab and dash down to the Great Hall for breakfast, eager to be away from the other girls squealing and cooing over their gifts. I want to get started on this book before anything gets in the way.

But they sit near me when they arrive at breakfast fifteen minutes later, so I'm treated to a front-row recital of all the gossip flying around the castle. Tension over the Ball has been high, though I've barely been aware of it, and their chatter centres on partners for the dance this evening: India and Alexandra have consented to go with Gideon and Isaac, for some inexplicable reason, and Kay is going with Eric Faulker from Hufflepuff, who as far as I knew is perfectly nice. Rosemary, after much effort, wound up with a completely unsatisfactory partner. Over the course of the meal she wretchedly recounts the fruitless efforts she went through in her quest for an appropriate partner, starting with the person who would most damage Roger's feelings, Chet, the Beater in his year, then going through the rest of the Ravenclaws, Irwin, Nigel, and Vladimir, all of whom refused. Then she moved on to the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, since they're Roger's direct rivals, but everyone was too young or already had a date. Next she tried the few male French students, but none were interested, so she moved onto the Durmstrang boys.

"Nine of them!" she laments over her food. "And every single one spoken for! And not all of them are very attractive, you know. I even asked Viktor Krum—" My ears perk up. "—but he said he already has a partner. Not surprising, considering who he is, but _still_. You know, I haven't heard a whisper of who his partner might be. Has anyone heard anything?"

"It's no one you like," I say, eliciting looks of surprise from the others. I practically never interject in their conversations.

"I bet it's that Slytherin bitch Balassi. He sits with the Slytherins every day, you know, and I've seen her talking to him…"

Long story short, she's going to the Yule Ball with Wendell. It's hilarious.

I hide away in a classroom with the linguistics book all day, devouring each article with a speed unprecedented for me. A lot of the technical stuff goes over my head, but the ideas are fascinating. Closeting myself has the added benefit of keeping me away from everyone who stayed at the castle for Christmas this year. I'd say only about a fifth of Hogwarts' population usually stays for the holiday, but this year it's the other way around: only a fifth went home, those who have no chance of going to the Yule Ball, or those who have inescapable familial obligations, like Jon. It's a pain having the other girls in the dorm at a time I'm used to being alone and able to relax, but it's not as bad as I had expected.

The bell tolling seven awakens me from my studious trance. Cursing, I run up to the Tower, where the other girls are already deeply involved in their pre-Ball beautification rituals. All I know of them is the regular giggles and splutters of laughter that echo out of the lav. I dig the butcher-paper package full of my dress out of my trunk, toss it on the bed, then clamber on after it and pull the curtains closed. "Lumos," I tell my wand and light fills my cave-like bed. Edgar wakes up and peers at me beadily, sensing my high energy. I take a deep breath and try to calm down.

I have not looked at the golden dress since the day I got it in the mail. I've become a little superstitious of it actually, like looking at it would prove that it's not actually as beautiful as I remember it being. So I'm hesitant as I pull the paper apart and reveal the glittering dress. I lift it up and it shimmers gently in the wand-light. My memory has not fooled me.

"Nita?" Kay says through the curtain and I crush the dress back into the paper without thinking. "Are you in there?"

"Yes?" I clear my throat. "Yes."

"I have a lipstick here that might look nice on you, if you want to try it."

"Oh, er…" The thought of makeup hasn't even crossed my mind. I've never worn anything on my face except face paint when I was little and ink from the rigged birthday present last year. I pull the curtain aside. Kay is in her dressing gown with her straight brown hair braided and elegantly wrapped around her head. She offers me a small black tube with a tentative smile. I stare at it for a minute, then mumble a somewhat ungracious "Thanks," take it from her, and withdraw back into the cave of my bed.

I strip out of my clothes slowly and my burn presents itself with greater force than it has for a long time. I wear long-sleeved shirts with high necks to be sure it is always hidden. The dress has transparent floaty cap sleeves, far less security than I'm used to. And the collar is not high. I mean, it's not revealing or anything, but it doesn't make much of an effort to hide the skin of the throat. Would it cover what I need it to? Would I be able to fix it if it didn't?

There is only one way to find out. Drawing a deep breath, I pull the dress over my head, letting the smooth, cool fabric settle over my body before daring to look down at myself. I breathe a relieved sigh. It covers the burn. The neckline rests high on my collar bone and the shoulders are the perfect width that it won't slip down and humiliate me. It falls to just below my knees, with a swishy skirt, as I noticed the first time I looked at it. But the bodice is tighter. Not snug, quite, but close-fitting until the waist. There's a little gather of fabric at each hip, perhaps designed to add definition to my admittedly lacking figure.

I reach for the shoes still in the butcher paper and pull them out. I've never worn heels before, and even the moderate height of them (an inch, if not less) makes me nervous. I lift one to my face to investigate how the straps work, and a sticker on the insole catches my eye. 'As with all of our products, these shoes come to you pre-enchanted with charms for stability and balance, so dance the night away without fear!' For the millionth time, magic to the rescue. But I still think I'll wait to put them on till I'm down at least a few of the staircases.

I crumple up the butcher paper, revealing Madam Malkin's Christmas present, _25 Easy Charms for Difficult Hair_ still lying on the bedspread where I left it this morning. I stare at it. I suppose, since the Yule Ball is such an old, formal tradition, that I should at least try not to resemble a giant golden cotton ball… I reach and flip the book open, nervous, though I don't know of what. The fifth item down on the table of contents is The Persuasion Charm, so I turn to page 12. 'Point your wand at the crown of your head…. Clearly pronounce 'coperor'…. Within five seconds, arrange hair as desired…. Enjoy up to six hours of unflappably perfect hair!' Seems simple enough. I grab up my wand, tell it "Nox," and aim it at my head. I squinch my eyes shut, say _"Coperor,"_ as clearly as I can. My scalp starts tingling, so I drop my wand and do the first thing I can think of which is simply to run my hands backwards over my hair and hold it down as best I can. My scalp stops tingling and I hesitantly remove my hands. My hair doesn't spring up and fall across my forehead like usual, so I take it to be a success and move on to the last step of Ball preparation.

I reignite my wand and take up Kay's lipstick. Uncapping it, I see it's a gentle shade of pink. Hesitantly, I run the stick of pigment across my lips. I hope it's not too much, but I have no mirror to check, and I'm certainly not going into the lavatory with those giggling twits.

Listening to ensure that they are in fact still in the loo, I scratch Edgar behind the ear one last time, toss the butcher paper, _25 Easy Charms for Difficult Hair_, and everything else left on my bed through the curtain into my trunk, and hop to the floor, clutching the shoes. The right-hand side of my bed is directly next to the door, so when the curtains are drawn it blocks most of the rest of the room off from view. That being the case, I escape unseen.

I must be early, because the common room and the castle beyond are deserted. I never had a watch and the clock in our room mysteriously disappeared a couple months ago. I pop into a loo on the third floor to find a mirror. The dress feels like it fits well, and the hair spell worked in theory, but I don't know how I actually _look_. I lock the door because some irrational part of my mind demands it, and stand far enough back from the sinks and their mirrors that I can see my whole body.

I've always had a soft spot for stories where the poor maiden gets a magical makeover and is suddenly beautiful and the prince falls in love with her. As something of an ugly duckling myself, I have always secretly yearned for something like Cinderella's story to happen to me, even while I scorned myself for it. And even if Viktor isn't a prince, he's still an international Quidditch star, and that's close. Because this dress does something I hadn't thought possible: it makes me look really good. I'm flat-chested and devoid of hips or bum, and the dress acknowledges my figure without making me look like a little child. The color suits my skin and hair, and the black beads of the necklace Madam Malkin gave me offset it nicely so I'm not too gold-oriented. Even my hair cooperated: it's staying back out of my face, which I discover, with some surprise, is not as severe or cold as I generally think of it it. Proud, certainly; easily unfriendly, but not necessarily so. I try a smile and am pleased to see it makes my face seem a little more even. And I've got good even teeth, something that must have come from my father since Mum's are atrocious. I didn't even put on too much lipstick! I decide to try and smile tonight.

Thus assured, I tie the high heels onto my feet and make my way through the rest of the castle to the Entry Hall. I had planned to wait for Viktor there since it's very snowy and cold outside, but apparently my feet have other plans. The front doors stand open and the area in front of them for some distance has been transformed into a lovely garden, complete with rose bushes and a tinkling fountain in the distance. But beyond that, there is quite a bit of snow. The Durmstrang students have forged a clear path between the castle and the ship by now, but there's about an inch of fresh powder, and my feet are quickly freezing. My burn hurts intensely too, as it doesn't react well with extreme temperatures at either end of the spectrum, but I ignore it. I'm used to it by now.

The ship is a wintry nightmare wonderland, sitting in the frozen lake with its portholes shining like pale eyes and all the rigging decked in skeletal icicles. I just hope it's warm inside. The gangplank looks dangerously icy and brittle, but I do not slip or break it, and then I am safely on-deck. A door on my right has light coming through the small window so I open it and peer down the narrow staircase. It seems to meet a dead end at the bottom, which makes no sense, so I descend carefully and find that it opens immediately to the right rather than going forward. There are small stones suspended from the ceiling which are full of the characteristic pale light, but none of the doors I can see are open, and I can't hear anything. "Hello?" I call uncertainly and my voice echoes in weird ways. There's a muffled thump and then a scuffle and several heads poke out of a door near the end of the passage.

"'Allo?" says one of them, and I hear she's a girl.

"Hi, I'm looking for Viktor, am I in the right…?"

A series of high-pitched squeals interrupt me and suddenly all three of the girls are hurtling towards me. Alarmed, I go stiff, but they seem to be excited rather than bloodthirsty, which had been my first assumption.

"'Allo, 'allo!" repeats the one who spoke before, smiling down at me. "You am the Nita one, yes? Most good, most good!" She has a strong Italian accent, large eyes, dark hair, and bright teeth. "I is Agata Acciai. Them is Vika Polzin," The very tall girl with soft blonde hair and a strong chin nods and smiles at me, "and Ekin Yilmaz. She does not speak the English." Ekin bobs her head, looking excited even though she can't say anything. "You am early," Agata goes on. "Viktor not ready yet. Good that you come to the girl's part, yes?" Vika giggles and says something fast to Ekin, who grins and nods enthusiastically. "You will be with us for the time until." As if there's nothing else to be said on the subject, she grabs my wrist and drags me back down the passage, Ekin and Vika chivvying from behind. And really, what argument would I want to make? These girls seem nice, and what would I do anyway since Viktor's not ready?

The room we end up in is very small, and from the presence of the single bed I figure it's one of their bedrooms. But there is easily ten people's worth of stuff. They all seem to have several dress options, and there are more bottles of potions and tinctures for hair than I have ever seen in one place before. Not to mention the makeup. Four or five languages fly around all at once, none of the girls caring if they will be understood by their friends or me. I definitely hear Russian, French, and English, as well as Italian, and something that might be Turkish. My head spins pleasantly and I don't even try to keep up.

None of them are more than half ready when I arrive, and they seem to assume the same of me before I can explain to Agata and Vika that I really am all set, thanks, I just came down to meet Viktor, not for more makeup, thanks though. After that they settle into well-ordered chaos. I watch, fascinated. I never take part in the other girls' primping sessions in Gryffindor Tower, so I've only a dim idea of what actually goes on. The main activity seems to be searching for things that mysteriously vanish after being set down two seconds previously. It's a bit like a Muggle magician's act where the finale is that everything he made disappear over the course of the show suddenly reappears just in time for it to be useful before the final flourishing bow and the exit. I nearly want to applaud when they all declare themselves perfect and lead me out into the passageway again. We hear a little commotion going on on deck when we got to the top of the stairs, and the three Durmstrang girls hold a brief conference which I can't hear before they suddenly push me to the back of the queue. "Stand behind us," Agata instructs me shortly, then Vika opens the door and steps into the chill night, followed by Ekin and Agata. I hear several male voices nearby, laughter, greetings called to the girls. They move to stand abreast of each other as they emerge on deck, Vika, the tallest, in the middle. I stand behind them as I am bid, wondering what's happening.

"Viktor," Ekin calls and suddenly I know exactly what they're doing. I'm being given a grand entrance. I do not have time to feel nervous before they step aside, revealing Viktor at the front of a group of several Durmstrang boys, splendid in rich red dress robes and furred half-cloak, curious and wary until he recognizes me in the dim moonlight. Then he does what passes as a smile for him: he stands up straighter, his eyes light up, and his lips twitch a little. Remembering my promise to myself, I try a smile, and find it sticks easily to my face and does not want to leave.

He comes towards me without a word, but frowns down at me when he gets close. "Are you cold?"

I find I am shivering when I consider his question, but somehow I don't think it's all from the temperature. Still, "A little," I admit, and he shrugs off his half-cloak and drapes it over my shoulders. I am very warm indeed after that.

The rest of the boys appear soon thereafter along with Professor Karkaroff, who gives me a startled look that swiftly morphs into a glare before ordering all of us to line up. So much for not fraternizing with the enemy. Viktor and I end up in the front, so my feet become cold again in the unforged snow. The Entry Hall is bustling when we step inside, and it's strange to see everyone in so many different colours rather than the usual black robes. Most of the Durmstrang boys disperse to look for their Hogwarts partners, and Agata, Vika, and Ekin wave to me before disappearing as well. I shrug out of Viktor's cloak and hand it back to him since it's far too warm inside to warrant it, and he accepts it with the same little bow as he gave after the first task. I look around curiously, wondering what we're supposed to do now, but then I hear Professor McGonagall call out "Champions over here please!" so we make our way through the throng of students towards her voice. Harry and Fleur and their partners have already made it before we arrive. Harry's next to a pretty Indian girl in bright pink robes, and Roger Davies is practically glued to Fleur, who is resplendent in silver silk and barely paying him any attention. I smirk: Rosemary will definitely not make him jealous by attending with Wendell.

I nod to my fellow champions and get answering nods along with appraising and appreciative looks, and I stand a little taller because of them.

McGonagall, in robes of red tartan with wreath of thistles round the brim of her hat, shoots a glance around at all of us, ending on me and Viktor. "Are your partners coming?"

I glance up at Viktor as he glances down at me. "We, er, are each other's partners, ma'am," I say.

She blinks a couple of times. "I see. Very good." She blinks a couple more times, then collects herself and addresses the group at large. "Champions and their partners will wait to the side of the doors until the rest of the students have gone inside and taken their seats, at which point you will enter by procession. Am I clear?" We all nod—except Roger, who is too busy staring at Fleur—so she nods back once and hustles off through the crowd, muttering something about removing two chairs. The six of us shuffle towards the doors to the Great Hall. Fleur and Roger take the spot nearest the door, and Harry's date drags them up behind them, so Viktor and I are at the back. Finding, through my blanket of general anxiety, that I have space to be bored, I take to people-watching, wondering idly if any of my dorm-mates have made it down yet. I see Harry's friends first, Granger and the youngest Weasley boy. Hermione is standing with a very good-looking boy from Beauxbatons, all wavy dark hair and straight, bright teeth and I think I catch her saying the name Raphael, but I'm not sure. Ron, looking extremely surly in some of the ugliest dress robes I've ever seen, is standing with a girl who can only be twins with Harry's date. I see Amar and Zadie across the Entry Hall, both handsomely dressed. Most of the Durmstrang boys have found their dates by now, and are chatting amiably in a group to the side for the most part. I notice Kay coming down the marble stairs, fetching in pale green and well-matched by Eric's dress robes of dove grey. I'm a little surprised by how much I know about complementary colours and clothing styles, and reflect somewhat wryly that Madam Malkin rubbed off on me more than I realized.

The doors into the Great Hall open and students begin pouring in, but that's the moment that I see everyone else from my dorm coming down the marble stairs. I have several seconds to examine them before they see me, and I take a certain smug pleasure in seeing that none of them look very happy. Rosemary in particular looks dour: her dress of burnt orange clashes atrociously with Wendell's powder-blue dress robes.

I enjoy their reactions in spite of myself when they see me. Rosemary, India, and Alexandra all glare at me in obvious fury and disbelief, while Gideon and Isaac gape. Wendell gives me a look as though he doesn't quite understand what I am and just hasn't the time or inclination to sort it out. I smile distantly at something over their heads as they pass us to get into the Hall, but as they're some of the last, it's time to focus on the task at hand. I smile a little as I recognize the significance of that particular phrase.

Professor McGonagall bustles up from somewhere and tells us all to get into lines by pairs and follow her, which we do. I put my arm uncertainly through Viktor's when he offers it and we walk into the Hall amidst enthusiastic applause and cheers, but I keep my face straight ahead, as does he. The Great Hall has been transformed since I ate breakfast in it this morning: the House tables have disappeared for one thing, which gives me a bit of a jolt. They've been replaced by a hundred or so smaller round ones with space for probably a dozen people each. The walls are covered in sparkling frost and thick garlands of ivy and mistletoe crisscross above our heads.

I have not walked the length of the Hall with everyone's attention on me like this since being chosen as champion, and the only other time was my Sorting, and just like then I keep my chin up and take big confident steps because just like then, I am not frightened. We are approaching the top table, where Professor Dumbledore, Madam Maxime, Karkaroff, Bagman, who is in ostentatious robes of bright purple with big yellowy stars, and Percy Weasley, for some reason, are sitting. Mr Crouch does not seem to be in attendance. Professor Dumbledore's expression is full of geniality as he gazes down on us, but Karkaroff still looks like he's swallowed something sour when he looks at me and Viktor together. I can't help but smile a little wider at that. We all take seats, and by some accident I wind up next to Bagman, who looks about as pleased as I am by the arrangement. Apparently he still holds the grudge from the Silencing Charm I put on him at the first task.

Once everyone has taken a seat, we start looking around expectantly for food. There are no large serving platters the way there usually are on the House tables, but nor do there seem to be waiters. There are small menus laid over all the plates, however, and I see Dumbledore pick his up, peruse it, and say "Pork chops," to his plate, which quickly appear.

Glancing down at the menu, I request "Salmon, please," while Viktor asks for lamb. The question of food sorted out, I am faced with the crippling prospect of conversation. Hoping to forestall my foot getting lodged in my mouth, I quickly ask, "So what's it like at Durmstrang? You haven't said much about it."

Viktor considers seriously for a long second before replying. "Vell, ve haff a castle also, not as big as this, nor as comfortable, I am thinking. Ve haff just four floors, and the fires are lit only for magical purposes. But ve haff grounds larger even than these—though in vinter, ve haff very little daylight, so ve are not enjoying them. But in summer ve are flying every day, over the lakes and mountains—"

"Now, now, Viktor!" Karkaroff interrupts , laughing in a distinctly unfriendly way. "Don't go giving away anything else, now, or your… alluring opponent will know exactly where to find us!"

I glare around Bagman at him. Damn and blast him for derailing Viktor! If he had gone on, and I was careful, I might not have had to say a single word all night!

"Igor, all this secrecy…" Professor Dumbledore speaks from his other side. "One would almost think you didn't want visitors."

"Well, Dumbledore," Karkaroff says, doing something that displays his teeth but is definitely not a smile, "we are all protective of our private domains, are we not? Do we not jealously guard the halls of learning that have been entrusted to us? Are we not right to be proud that we alone know our school's secrets, and right to protect them?"

I roll my eyes and stick a chunk of salmon in my mouth. At my side, Bagman clears his throat, and I glance at him suspiciously. He's looking down at me, blue eyes squinted into something resembling a grin. I frown.

"Your parents must be, er, very excited about you being in the, er, Tournament, eh?"

"My mother's not a witch, sir. She doesn't care." I do not elucidate the size of my latter statement. Easy enough to apply it only to the Tournament.

"Ah, yes, well, that is, um… But your father?"

Growing more confused and irritated by the second, I retort, "I never knew my father, so I doubt very much he cares I'm in the Tournament either. Now, if you don't mind, I'm here with someone."

I conspicuously turn my back on him and take a long draught of water. Viktor looks bemused and concerned. "Are you alright? Vos he rude to you?"

"No no, it's fine. He was just asking random things about my parents."

"Vot about them?"

I bite my lips, trying to devise a way out of this. I don't want to talk about Mum right now, I _don't_. But I can't not answer his question. "Just whether they're excited about me being a champion and stuff."

"Are they?"

"Sure, I guess. Are yours?"

"They vere more excited for me being in the Vorld Cup, but yes, they are. Do you argue vith your parents?"

"Yeah, I guess so," I say evasively. He doesn't reply, letting the silence stretch on until my ears itch with it. Finally I say, very carefully, "My mum and I live in London. I never knew my dad." I stare down at my plate, not interested, or perhaps afraid of what his reaction to this information might be. I want to leap up and shout "_I am illegitimate and my mother hates me for it_!" but repress the unutterably stupid impulse. But thankfully, he starts going on about all of his impressions of Hogwarts, most of them favourable, and I am spared from giving any more humiliating family history presentations. I recognize his actions as kind and flare against them, but remind myself of the alternatives and calm down.

Once everyone has finished eating, Dumbledore stands up, requesting for everyone else to do the same, and with a flick of his wand, sends all the tables to the sides of the Hall and the dance floor is clear. Then he conjures a low stage against the wall on our right with a set of drums, several guitars, a lute, a cello, and some bagpipes arrayed on it. Viktor offers me his hand and I take it without thinking as the band comes on stage to wild applause. Mary sometimes carries a small radio around with her when we clean rooms, so I've heard some of the Weird Sisters' music, and a whole evening of listening to their stuff does not fill me with delight. But we're only obligated to dance one song, after all. Maybe I'll even leave early.

A large empty space has formed in the middle of the floor, the only well-lit area in the whole Hall since all the lanterns on the table have gone out. Viktor puts his hand on my waist and I jump. Nobody really touches me, ever. His hand feels warm through my dress, almost uncomfortably so. I stare fixedly at his shoulder as the music begins. I don't think what we do really counts as dancing: more just revolving on the spot sort of in time with the music. But I know I couldn't have managed anything else, so I grit my teeth and make the best of it.

It's difficult not to hear the whispers, of course. Viktor and I are rival champions, dancing together. Fraternizing with the enemy, for those who think in such terms. I don't look at anyone in the circle surrounding us, which is beginning to remind me strongly of gladiator spectators. Fortunately we aren't the center of attention for long: Professor Dumbledore invites Madam Maxime to dance, and they are incongruously and unfairly graceful together. Hermione and her French boy are dancing nearby, clearly quite content with life. Professor Moody is over to the side threatening the safety of Professor Sinistra's toes with his peg leg. Rosemary and Wendell are waltzing conspicuously near Fleur and Roger, who pay them precisely no attention, and Rosemary looks satisfyingly bad-tempered.

But the dance floor gets quite crowded by the end of the song, so I am glad to hear the final wavering bagpipe notes, and start to move towards the edge of the dance floor to the tables. But Viktor doesn't let go of my hand, so I don't get far. I look back at him, confused and abruptly afraid. "What?"

His thick brows are drawn down in confusion. "Do you not vant to dance more?"

"I don't like to… I mean…" I look back and forth, licking my lips. "Being in the middle of so many people makes me nervous."

His brow crumples, showing his worry. "Vould you like to valk outside then? I saw they made a garden."

I nod, relieved. We edge along the side of the Hall, dodging flailing limbs since the music's tempo has gotten much faster. The air outside is sharp and chill, but a welcome relief from the heat of the Hall, and the garden seems protected from the true midwinter temperatures. Real live fairies twinkle in and out between impressive rose bushes that had been magicked there since this morning. Professor Sprout is earning her keep, certainly. We chose a path at random without consulting one another and walked in silence for a while.

"How does it vork at Hogvarts?" he asks thoughtfully, and I'm grateful he broke the silence before I had to think of something. I'm not sure what he means though, so I look up inquiringly. "At vhat time are you done? At vhat age?"

"Oh, I see. The way it works is that you have to be eleven before you come here, so even if you turn twelve on September second, you'll still be a first year. So some people are eleven their whole first year, but some turn twelve. I was one of those: my birthday's in June."

"So are you in your last year of school?"

"Yes, seventh. I'll be graduating at the end of the year."

"Do you have plans for after? To vork?"

"Well, I've applied to go to the Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages, and I'll be working at a pub that I've been working at since… well, I've worked there every summer I've been at school, and I live in…" I catch myself, horrified by how close I just came to telling him that I live in the back room of Bigby's parlour. "…I live close enough to walk, so it's very easy." We walk in silence again. "What about you? Do you have plans for summer?"

He shrugs. "Go back to practicing vith the team. I am not very vorried about school, since I vill play Qvidditch forever, I believe. I vill also graduate—yes? Graduate?—from Durmstrang this year."

"It must be nice to be so confident about the future."

"You are sounding very confident as vell however, yes?"

"I suppose. But in the end I want… well, I don't know. It doesn't matter right now."

"I don't think so."

I can feel him looking at me, hear in his voice that his face is tilted down at mine. But I can't look at him. What is it about him that makes me forget why it's important to be strong? I know if I look at him all of my secrets will spill out in a flood of ugly truths and deep-rooted fears. I have come too close already. So I keep my eyes down towards the path. I say "Would you like to go back inside now?" I pretend I do not hear him sigh, as if confused or disappointed.

A song is just ending when we get inside, and we watch from the Entry Hall as the crowd applauds and resettles. Some couples divide, others form. The band strikes up another song, a slow one that is strong on the cello and lute. I feel him touch my hand. "Ve could dance here, if you vant," he says. "Avay from the people."

After a long second, I nod. "Okay."

He puts his hand on my waist again, and it is still warm, and heavy, but he does not pull me closer to him than I want to be, and I relax. I look mainly at his shoulder, like before, but every so often I sneak a glance up to his face. Every time I do, his dark eyes are there to meet mine, and I have to spend several seconds recovering my composure. I can't tell if I'm relieved or disappointed when the song ends, but we clap along with everyone else. "Vould you like to sit? I vill get drinks."

"I'll find a table," I agree, eager to have a minute alone to collect myself. He goes one way in the Great Hall and I go the other, searching out an empty table. The crowd moves into a different configuration as faster music starts up. Near the edge of the crowd, I see Bagman bend over to kiss Professor McGonagall's hand before hurrying away. She is wearing her Points Off Face as she watches him go, and he seems like he's escaped an intense interrogation session. Nostrils flaring angrily, Professor McGonagall spins on her heel and stalks in my rough direction. She shoots me a sharp glance as she goes past, mutters something about "speculation indeed" and disappears.

I select a table near the back of the Hall and sit stiffly, waiting for Viktor. He appears before too long with two bottles of Butterbeer, which I'm glad to see. I've even thought of a nice safe conversation topic in the interim, and I jump right in with it before he can suggest something less benign. "How did you become involved in Quidditch?"

He grunts, and I realize that's probably a very common question for him. Stupid. Badly done, Nita.

"I mean, I should probably know that, since they published a little biography of everyone in the World Cup in _The Daily_ _Prophet_ before the final, but I never read it, so if you want to talk about something—"

He cuts me off with a gesture and a frown that still looks like a smile somehow. "I said to you I like that you think I am normal, yes?"

I sheepishly agree that this is so.

"I don't mind to tell you. I liked brooms from young age. I flew vell as soon as I tried. My parents encouraged me in this and I had lessons. Then I am chosen for the Durmstrang team very quick, and a scout saw me at a game vhen I vas sixteen and recruited me. I trained with the team for half year without playing, then began vonce I turned seventeen. This year vos my second season. проклет Levski thinks he is…" He groped for an appropriate term. "Thinks he can be the whole team on his own, do you see?"

"Yes, I know people like that." But hearing him swear in Bulgarian has my head in a totally different space and I don't really care about Levinsky or whoever. It's time for me to ask. "Would you teach me Bulgarian?" I say hopefully. I know other girls might simper and make eyes to win such a request, but I have no idea how to do that, so I just hope looking earnest is enough.

He frowns. I'm learning that that is his go-to expression for everything. "I do not know how to teach," he says finally.

"It's okay. I'm really good with languages. Could you say something for me?"

He gazes at me consideringly for a long moment, and finally mumbles, "Вие сте упорит, но прелестен."

I listen with the part of my mind that hears all things truly. This language wants to be understood. Its point is to communicate with other humans. I let the sounds of his words relax into meaning.

"Вие сте… 'You is…' No, 'are', упорит. Ornery? Stubborn? Stubborn." I beam at his shocked expression. "You're right there. но, that's negating, feels like 'but', yeah? Okay, 'you are stubborn but прелестен'." The playful smile I'd cultivated slips off my face as the meaning registers. "You think I'm beautiful?"

To my surprise, he blushes. Is it possible to blush angrily? He does it. "If you know the speaking already, you don't haff ask me teaching," he says and starts to get up. Anger has loosened his command of English.

"I don't, I promise!" I protest, reaching for his arm to make him stay. He sits reluctantly, glaring at me. As a Gryffindor, I understand pride and the myriad forms it takes when affronted, and I do my best to allay his. "I really don't speak Bulgarian. But I've always been able to understand other languages really fast. I hadn't spoken French in years until that night with Fleur when we were all selected. And you saw me with the dragon. So I wasn't trying to show you up. And it wasn't _my_ fault you said something like that."

He scowls more deeply than ever.

I try again. "I'm sorry. I should have warned you that I would probably understand."

He seems to relent. "You really don't know Bulgarian before now?"

I shake my head. "Nope. It's just a weird… thing I do. It's why I'm going to the Euro-Glyph School, so that I can learn as much about languages as I can, and maybe figure out why I can do this. I think it's like how some people are chess prodigies, or—" I gesture to him. "—flying prodigies, I don't know. I've always been able to do it, but it's gotten stronger as I've gotten older."

"Do you know somevun else who does it?"

"No, I've never heard of anyone doing this before. But I suppose I've never really looked into it."

"That must be strange. Vhen I first am interested in Qvidditch, I read all the things possible about it."

"The thing about that is that everyone's interested in Quidditch and there's a lot written about it. Not very many people care about people who can learn languages absurdly fast."

He considers this. "So… can you now speak Bulgarian?" He sounds curious and hopeful.

"I'd like to listen to you speak it some more just to make sure I've got it, but then I think I could do alright, yes. Don't try to tell jokes or puns or anything though, I'm going to be very literal at first."

He nods, looking eager. He begins to speak Bulgarian, not too slowly but with a very purposeful cadence and I listen deeply. His words unravel into meaning and I hear he's talking about Durmstrang and how he barely gets to speak his native tongue there since the school is run partially on German, partially on English and partially on Russian. Only twenty other students come from Bulgaria out of the whole school, and the majority are younger than him. Of them all, he's only friends with one, a boy named Slavoj Minkov who had come to Hogwarts for the Tournament as well.

"I'd like if you could meet him at some point," he says. "But I wonder if you'd like each other…"

"I do want to meet him," I say in Bulgarian and am rewarded by how his eyes widen. A smile spreads across my face in response. "And I'd like for you to meet my best friend as well. His name is Edgar." Viktor looks around the crowded Hall as though expecting me to point Edgar out to him. "Oh, he's not here." For some reason it totally slips my mind to mention that Edgar not actually human. "Some other time. So are you still on the Durmstrang Quidditch team even though you're also professional?"

"I still play with them, but I am not forced to train with them. Karkaroff is too invested in winning to take me off the team, and there's no rule saying I can't play on both teams since they're in such different leagues. It would be something else if I were to play on another school's team since that would obviously conflict, but since one is professional and one is club, it's fine."

I look around furtively before asking my next question. "Does anyone at Durmstrang actually like Karkaroff?"

He grimaces. "No. Well, maybe two or three who he's chosen as his favorites."

"Seems like he's chosen you as a favorite though, right?"

He agrees with a sigh. "I think it's repulsive. He didn't care about me at all until I joined the school's Quidditch team, but it got out of hand when I started training with the national team. The others he favours were selected as soon as they started school because their parents are important people or whatever reason, but I had several years of anonymity before he tried to collect me."

I sympathize. "There's stuff like that here too." I go on for a while about Snape and the Slytherins, and Professor Dumbledore's obvious favoritism towards Gryffindor and specifically Harry Potter, which irks me as much as it benefits my House. After a while I forget I'm speaking Bulgarian, and Viktor seems to get used to it too, and conversation flows easily as we compare our schools. He does a spot-on imitation of Karkaroff, complete with winding his finger around an imaginary goatee, and we both laugh heartily.

Several hours on when the clock strikes twelve times and the teachers begin shepherding everyone out, I realize that we've been so busy talking that we completely forgot to drink our Butterbeers and the bottles are sitting in puddles of condensation. He challenges me to see who can drink theirs faster and I lose but he gets foam all over his face and we both end up laughing. We're amongst the last out of the Hall, and the Entry Hall is full of tiny personal dramas unfolding, some good and some bad. Fleur and Roger Davies come in from the rose gardens, giggling, and Snape and Dumbledore are over to the side, talking about the Sorting Hat or something.

A wash of nerves breaks over my mind. Despite not dancing, I've had an amazing night, and it seems as though he's enjoyed himself too. What if he tries to kiss me now? How would I feel about that? Do I want him to? Maybe. Yes. Do I want to want him to? Do I want him to want to? I've stopped making sense.

As if by clockwork, by no conscious command on my part, my body turns to face him. He smells like Butterbeer and the fur of his half-cloak, and his eyes have regained their power to trip my heart beat. "Did you have a good time?" he asks awkwardly.

"Yes!" I hasten to reassure him, then bite my tongue and curse myself for sounding so keen. "I really did, you have no idea. You were so great about me being all weird about people, and teaching me Bulgarian and everything…"

He nods, not taking his eyes from me. "I like talking to you too. I still don't really believe you learned Bulgarian so fast." I smile a little. "But I'd like to keep spending time with you. Would you? Like that?"

I feel my face turn ten shades of red as I nod. "Yes, I would."

He does his smile: the brightening of the eyes and the straightening of the shoulders. I'm amazed that I recognize these signs after so short an association. Then he takes my hand in both of his and bows over it, brushing the lightest of kisses against my knuckle. A tide of heat rushes up my arm then splits to nestle at the base of my spine and the back of my skull. "I vish you pleasant dreams, Nheeta." The switch back to English startles me for a second, but I catch up in time to stammer "Likewise."

I feel as though I fly up the seven sets of stairs. I don't care when I get to the common room and Harry Potter's friends are screaming at each other. I care even less than usual when I get into the dorm and Rosemary is a blubbering wreck and Alexandra and India and Kay are ineffectually trying to console her. They all look up when I come in and Rosemary leaps from the bed in what appears to be a righteous fury.

"Well!" she hiccups. "If the prodigal hasn't returned after all!" Sobs intersperse the words but I understand her well enough. "I hope you had just the most wonderful night, Nita, the most wonderful fairy tale-perfect fucking night you could have asked for!"

I peer over at Kay, confused and somewhat alarmed. "Rosemary," she says in soothing tones. "Nita has nothing to do with any of this. It's not her fault she had a good night and you didn't."

"You stay out of this!" Rosemary shrieks, whirling on her, and Kay recoils, looking shocked. Rosemary rounds back to me and I look up at her, wary. Her makeup is running and her dark hair has come halfway out of the fancy updo. She has discarded her dress as well and stands in a rumpled slip and stockings. Altogether terrifying. "So," she sneers. "Viktor Krum is going to the dance with no one we like, is he?"

"Well, it was true, wasn't it?"

"I admit, I nearly choked when I saw you two together. _Such_ an unequal match. What did you have to give him to get him to go with you?"

The insinuation could not have been clearer.

But neither could her motives. I make sure to sound as condescending as possible as I say, "Oh, I see. Did you see Roger and Fleur ducking outside together, looking so excited and secretive? I bet you inferred what they were going to do, didn't you? You're smart. Sort of. So not only did your grand scheme to win Roger back fail miserably, but then you look around and see me of all people, have a charming time with my very famous and attractive date who turned you down because he was already going with me. That must have stung. So I understand that you're really upset with me right now, I truly do. However, as we've already established, I've had a wonderful time, and unfortunately for you, you're nowhere near important enough to be able to ruin it." I shrug as though I'm apologizing. Behind her, India and Alexandra are dumbstruck, and even Kay looks uncomfortable, like she feels like she ought to intervene but can't quite justify it. But Rosemary's face is the best: she looks as though a statue she's used to beating with a willow switch suddenly came to life and whacked her with an oaken plank. "So if you don't mine, I'm going to go to bed. Could you try to cry quietly?"

And I climb into bed, snap the curtains shut, strip off the dress and pull on my old nightgown and curl up with Edgar. No way is Rosemary allowed to cock up such a perfectly pleasant evening. I'm asleep before I know it.

**A/N**

**The little bit of translating Nita does here comes to you courtesy of Google Translate, so if there's a more accurate way to say it, I am ALL ears. **

**But my most beloved characters are finally getting to know each other! I'm so excited for them! Nita still has a long way to go in the honesty department, but she's working on it! **

**Chapter 10, "Progress", will go up next Tuesday!**

**All characters (except for mine) are owned by JK Rowling, Warner Bros, etc.**

**E.I. signing out**


	10. Progress

_Chapter 10 – Progress_

The other girls leave me alone after my outburst at Rosemary, and I use the reprieve in the few days between the Yule Ball and the beginning of classes to well and truly buckle down to researching what kind of animal's voice comes out of the egg. However, as no breakthrough presents itself and my supply of books begins to dwindle, I go back to the source material. I usually use the bathroom in the dorm when I open the egg, since going to some secluded place in the rest of the castle is too much effort. And something in how the tiled walls echo helps me hear… not a different message, but deeper into the one I've already deciphered. I always use a Silencing Charm on the door, so it's never a real problem unless one of the others opens it without knowing I'm in there.

In the days following the Ball, Viktor takes up the habit of joining me at meals if we happen to be in the Hall at the same time. We don't talk much—he seems to sense that I don't like conversation while I'm eating, and besides, when we sit together we attract eavesdroppers like honey does flies. Sometimes I talk more than is my wont just because the Bulgarian frustrates them.

We are eating lunch together on the Wednesday of the week that classes start back up. I have just come out of double Defense in which Moody stumped back and forth in front of the blackboard and lectured us on the dangers of lack of focus with silent spell casting. I've got Runes with Babbling after lunch so I can't dawdle and we talk less than usual. Just as I'm swiping the last gravy up with a shred of bread, he speaks up, in Bulgarian so that we can't be understood.

"I know we aren't supposed to talk about it, but how are you coming on the egg?"

I wonder what my reaction to this is supposed to be. Am I meant to be offended? Angry? Worried that all of his attention to me is simply a roundabout way of getting information? I don't feel any of that. Actually, all I feel is a faint surprise that it took so long for the topic to come up. "I'm close," I tell him. "Really close. What about you?"

"Close too." A pause long enough for both of us to take our last bites of food. "I'm late," he declares. "Will you be at supper?"

"Can't think why not," I agree, and we walk the length of the Great Hall together before splitting ways in the Entry Hall. I'm preoccupied throughout my Runes tutorial, but Babbling is hot on the trail of some new epiphany and doesn't notice. I have a free hour between Runes and supper, so I go back to the dorm for a chance to work quietly on the egg. I used my free time in the morning before Defense writing back to Regina and Bigby and Madam Malkin, so I want to make up for it now. I was telling the truth before, with Viktor: I _am_ close to figuring out the egg, I can tell. I just need one final breakthrough. I understand more nuance in the language itself now, and am getting closer, I think, to parsing out what kind of creature it could be.

Kay is in the dorm when I get upstairs. She must have the hour free also. "Hello Nita," she says pleasantly, pulling her towel and bottles of hair potions out of her trunk. "How are you?"

"Fine," I say, lifting Edgar from my bed and letting him crawl across my shoulders. "Were you about to take a bath?"

"Oh, yes, I was going to… Did you want to use it for your egg?"

"Yeah, but I can do it out here just as well; I only do it in there most of the time because everyone else is in here. Will it bother you if I use _muffliato_ and open it in here instead?"

"No, not at all," she says with a smile, and disappears into the bathroom, closing the door softly behind her. I have started to like Kay more and more as this year wears on. She has always been even-tempered and patient, but I've been seeing more kindness from her than ever before.

But I turn my attention to the golden egg, pulling it out of my trunk and settling cross-legged on my bed after casting a quick pair of silencing charms and deafening Edgar. He has become accustomed to this arrangement, though he still does not enjoy it, and relaxes again after some discontented grumbling. The screeching wail has not changed in any respect, and the message is still just as mysterious, despite my growing understanding of the language. Whoever is speaking intends to steal my most precious possession, and give me one hour to recover it. I listen to it over and over again, losing myself in the sound as the poem-message repeats. My eyes are closed, the egg in my hands seeming alive rather than inert, and a phrase from Regina's latest letter floats through my mind: …_deeper level that language itself must be a symbol for the culture, symbiotic, representing as much as it is represented…_ I think of Miss Zeldin speaking Atlantean, the warbling, melodious beauty of it, I think of how Atlantis—

The sound of the door opening and the other girls chatting bursts through my concentration, but no fast enough for me to close the egg, and all three of them begin shouting angrily and cover their ears.

"Damn you Nita!" Rosemary screams over the cacophony, stomping forward and ripping the egg from my hands. "I don't care if you're Triwizard champion or Queen of bloody England, at least put a sign on the door!" Rosemary has been the one to most frequently open the door of the loo while I'm working with the egg, so she is the most frustrated with me for it. It seems her frustration has reached a peak now because she storms towards the bathroom, wrenches the door open, and disappears as I scramble off my bed to follow. I only hear what happens next, but the egg's wailing suddenly cut off by a loud splash, followed by Kay exclaiming, "Rosemary, what are you doing!?" paints a vivid enough picture. Rosemary stalks back out, brushing past me in the process as I go in to retrieve the egg.

"Sorry," I tell Kay, who has drawn her legs up to the top of the bath and dragged half her towel into the water to cover herself. It's soaked now. "I can dry that for you if you want."

"No, that's fine, but if you could get my wand, I'd thank you."

"Sure, where is it?"

"On my bedside table."

I fetch it for her, ignoring the others by course. Kay has stepped out of the tub when I get back, wrapped in her sodden towel and in the middle of wringing out her long hair. "Thanks," she says, taking her wand. "The egg sounds different in the water, don't you think? Less screechy." She murmurs a mild heating charm and begins to run her wand through her hair.

With a start, I realize she's right. The egg is still submerged in the bath water, and the sound of the message has sort of relaxed, and sounds more familiar than ever. Without thinking, I plunge my head into the tub and perfect understanding pours over me with the warm water.

"—_black_

_Too late, it's gone, it won't come back," _I hear, but then the voice begins again:

"_Come seek us where our voices sound,_

_We cannot sing above the ground,_

_And while you're searching, ponder this:_

_We've taken what you'll sorely miss,_

_An hour long you'll have to look,_

_And to recover what we took,_

_But past an hour – the prospect's black_

_Too late, it's gone, it won't come back."_

Kay pulls at my shoulders and I instinctively squirm out of her grasp, but I do come up for air. "Nita!" she exclaims. "Are you okay? What are you doing?"

"Of course!" I shout, pulling the egg out of the water so that it screams in the former way, but I snap it shut.

"Of course what?" she asks, sounding alarmed.

"I've got it!" I answer jubilantly. "Quick, dry me off a bit?"

She complies, still looking concerned, and I dash out, my robes and hair still damp. The others look up at me coolly as I pause to chuck the egg back in my trunk, give Edgar his hearing back, grab all the useless library books I've checked out, and sprint out of the dorm.

What an idiot I am! All that time spent reading bestiaries, and I skipped right past the very thing I need! Merpeople! The library bustles with the usual traffic that arrives between the last class of the day and supper, but by the time I've checked everything back in, it's emptying out. I search the shelves eagerly, earning angry and suspicious looks from Madam Pince, and trot up to a worktable with a satisfyingly useful stack of books. _Merpeople: A Comprehensive Guide to Their Language and Customs_ by a bloke named Dylan Marwood rests on top, and I spend some time perusing the pages smugly. He had a great deal of technical knowledge on Mermish, and I recognize many of the forms I've been listening to almost constantly for the past few months. But I don't really need to know much about merpeople. They're holding something of mine hostage, so what I really need is to figure out a way to stay underwater for an hour. I've got several books on advanced charms, various kinds of aquatic magic, and a few potions books, since I'm good at potions even though it doesn't seem a promising prospect at face value. The evening wears on as I scan through tables of contents, chapter abstracts, and blurbs of all sorts until my head jerks up almost of its own accord to look at the clock: seven forty-one. I've missed supper! After I told Viktor I'd eat with him too! Damn it, this is the second time!

I leap up to rush to the Great Hall, despite knowing it's too late to find him there, sit back down dejectedly, and begin stacking the books mechanically, as I once had with the dragon books: _useful, interesting but not useful, not useful, not useful, useful, useful, Viktor's hand—_

My head jerks up again, a smile spontaneously springing onto my face. "Hi!"

"_Ssshhh!_" Madam Pince hisses, glaring at us. Irritated but chastened, I lower my voice.

"I'm sorry I wasn't at supper, I got so wrapped up in research I completely lost track of time—"

"Don't vorry," he says, and I blink at the English.

"Sorry," I say in sheepish Bulgarian. "I got excited and forgot."

"No, I should practice my English." But he's back to his native tongue too. "Is whatever you're doing worth missing dinner?"

Satisfaction swells in me again. "Yes, definitely. And my meals tend to be unreliable anyway." I curse inwardly and clamp my lips shut.

He gives me a look that makes my stomach crimp in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. "You don't tell me very much," he says slowly. "That's okay. But I don't think you have anything to be embarrassed about."

I feel my face burn dully.

"I can't stay very long," he goes on, and I compose my face through an effort of will. "I told Karkaroff I forgot something up here, but he wants everyone back in the ship by eight. I think he wants to keep me away from you."

"Well, I am fiercely intimidating," I say nonchalantly.

He scoffs quietly. "Yes, terrifying."

"Who couldn't talk to whom for several weeks?" I'm uncomfortable making the joke. I still don't quite believe he has the feelings for me he says he does, so taking them for granted for the sake of humor feels inappropriate. But since he only rolls his eyes a little, it must be okay.

He leaves a few minutes later and I pack up too since the library is closing, and go up to bed.

Two days later, on Friday, I arrive slightly early outside of the Charms room by accident and have to wait for a bunch of fourth years to vacate the space before I can go in. But one of the fourth years is Harry, and something occurs to me.

"Hey, wait!" I call, and several people look around, including Harry and his two friends. He sees I'm looking at him and stops, letting the rest of his classmates trickle away down the corridor, giving us curious looks the whole way. "Listen, I need to tell you something. Alone, preferably." He glances at his friends, who shrug and carry on down the corridor. But by now my classmates are arriving and giving us curious looks, so I gesture for Harry to follow me and take off down a side corridor. Once I judge us a safe distance away, I round on him and plunge in. "Right. You told me about the dragons, so listen: the next task? Find a way to be underwater for an hour." He stares at me with an utterly blank expression. "Got it?" I ask dubiously.

"Underwater?" he repeats. "For an hour? How? Why?"

"Because that's the task," I say impatiently. "The idea is that we've got to recover something out of the lake. We've got an hour to do it. Okay?"

"Yeah," he says, sounding breathless. "Cool. Thanks. Thanks! Great. An hour…"

"Good, we're even now. I need to go to class. Bye."

"Yeah, see you."

I think about my impulsive action all through Charms. On the one hand, he did tell me about the dragons and one good turn deserves another. On the other hand, I made it abundantly clear the night we were selected as champions that I intend to do whatever it takes to win, and sharing vital information with a rival is not an ideal way to do that. But it's not like I told him _how_ to stay underwater for an hour. Not that I could have anyway… I'm still figuring that part out myself. At least my conscience is clear now, and like I said: we're even. No more helping.

Between researching for the second task, regular school work plus revision for Newts, and keeping up with my correspondence, I anticipate being very busy. What complicates this forecast is the fact that I discover the perfect potion to get me through the second task. I've got the highest score of all the champions, and I want to maintain that. That means I have to prepare this time. From listening around the castle, I've figured out what the others did with the dragon, and it all sounds well-arranged and impressive. All I did was talk to it. Good for shock value I suppose, but not high scores on forethought. So even though I find the Bubble-Head Charm, and decide to figure it out as a back-up, I ultimately reject it in favour of this potion.

I find it in a musty old potions book with the unusually pessimistic title _Potions No One Uses __Anymore_. But if I had a name like Dweezle Nincompompolopicus, I suppose I'd be cynical too. It's Friday the 13th, appropriately enough, and most people are up in their dorms or lingering over supper, happily in denial about the weekend's homework. I'm only flipping through Nincompo… Nin… (I flip back to the cover) Nincompompolopicus's book to give myself a break from the more serious reading I'd been doing about charms, but the heading of the page catches my eye: Submarine Rebreather Film Potion. Intrigued, I squint down at the faded ink. The short paragraph at the top explains that if the potion is brewed correctly, a sort of rubbery skin or film will form over the top of it, which can be peeled off and placed over the face of the brewer, enabling them to breathe underwater for most of the day, as the film acts in such a way that it will transform water into air as it passes through the membrane. There's a particularly cynical note at the bottom explaining that no one uses this potion anymore since the discovery of Gilly Weed in the 1700s, since despite being fairly rare, the plant is much easier to use and has a greater range of beneficial effects. For a moment I do consider trying to get my hands on some Gilly Weed, but then I remember it's a Stage 3 Controlled Substance, so I'd never be able to. Ah well.

I read on eagerly to the instructions. Many of the ingredients are pretty standard, but there's also stuff like boar urine and the skin of black widow spiders. The list also includes, strangely, a slice of stale oat bread. It does look fairly complicated to brew, but at least there's none of this 'stir clockwise twelve times, counterclockwise thrice, clockwise five times, counterclockwise once, add one drop Hinkypunk venom, repeat five times' stuff like Snape's been assigning lately. But there is a catch to it. It takes exactly one solar month to brew, which, a quick consultation of the almanac reveals, is 30 days, 10 hours, 29 minutes, and 3.8 seconds precisely. And the film has to be harvested at the exact right moment, or it will curdle. And it has to go from the cauldron onto the person's face and into the water within seconds, or it will dry up and crumble, so it's dead finicky. But the challenge awakens my intellectual verve, and I decide I have to try it. I copy down the list of ingredients and the instructions and give myself the rest of the day off.

Tomorrow, conveniently enough, is a Hogsmeade visit, so I'll be able to collect at least most of the ingredients on the list then. If I have to, I can write to Mr Mullpepper for the rarer ones. So it's with quite a cheerful feeling that I sit down to breakfast on Saturday, and with quite a cheerful tone that I greet Viktor when he comes over.

"Do you mind if the others sit with us today?" he asks after reciprocating my good morning.

"What others?" I ask curiously.

He waves a hand behind him and I notice the eleven other Durmstrang students standing in a clump a little distance down the table.

"Oh! Er—sure!"

Viktor calls back to them and they approach us, most smiling, some looking nervous. I realize I feel nervous as well, and am careful not to show it as Viktor speaks a slew of names and I swiftly forget them. There's Zigmund, Ernst, I know Vika and Ekin and Agata, Niccolo—Calixto—Topias—Mathis—Eduard—Slavoj… Finally, they all sit down and load their plates. About three-quarters of them speak English, and talk patters along well enough, especially when I reveal I know French. The girls ply me for gossip about Viktor, as he's apparently been very tight-lipped about what we did at the Yule Ball and they feel it's their right to know everything since they 'helped me get ready'. I remember it slightly differently and continue Viktor's policy of tight-lipped-ness, to their dismay.

I learn it's different to be included in a group than it is to watch one from the side. It's a stupid epiphany once I examine it, but it still feels important. Never once at Hogwarts have I been part of a group. Sitting in my usual spot at the top of Gryffindor table surrounded by laughing people who like me—or at least don't dislike me—is a very strange experience. Tentatively, I enjoy it. I eat even less than usual because all the conversation makes me feel that I'm not actually at a meal but some other sort of social gathering. I cover this fact by drinking lots of tea. Someone eventually asks what this 'Hogsmeade' thing they've been hearing about is and whether it has anything to do with pork. Laughing, I clarify the difference between Hogsmeade and hog's meat, and explain how the weekend visits work, and it is quickly decided by the whole group that they absolutely have to go. I half-heartedly mention the permission form bit, but one of the boys—Zigmund? Calixto?—waves his hand and declares that only applies to Hogwarts students. Dubious but willing to play along, I hang to the back of the group with Viktor as we leave the Great Hall.

"Is your cloak new?" he asks as we step outside.

I finger a fold of green cloth. "Yes, it was a Christmas gift. I've never worn it before."

"I like it," he says, and my insides flood with warmth. "Do you have the flower here that's yellow, but then becomes white fluff?"

"Dandelions?" I say incredulously. He nods, looking a little worried by my tone. "That's what Bigby said! Damn… I'll have to tell him he was right…"

"Who's Bigby?" he asks.

I press my lips together, determined to keep my tongue still for _once_, but… what would be wrong with telling him who Bigby is? "He's like my uncle, or my godfather. His wife is the one who gave me this, and he said in the note that he thought I would look like a dandelion."

"I like dandelions," he tells me, and that delicious heat is back. "They're tough, and pretty. Like you." I'm sure my face is vermilion.

We're at the gate by then and the larger group of Durmstrangers is negotiating with the professor. "Ve are all of-age adults," one of the boys is saying haughtily. "And it is the veekend. Karkaroff is not in charge of vat ve do on the veekend." Whichever teacher he's talking to evidently relents and the group piles down the path to the village. Viktor and I bring up the rear, nodding to the harried-looking Professor Sinistra as we pass.

We don't speak again on the walk down to the village, until we get to the top of Main Street and he asks where I would recommend going.

"I'd _recommend_ going to the Three Broomsticks, but first I have to go to the apothecary for some stuff. Is that okay?"

"Yes, of course."

We meander through the village while I point out notable landmarks. As I expect, the apothecary carries almost all of the ingredients I need, barring the black widow skin, and he's out of iron shavings, but he promises to order them for me at a discount when I say I can write to Mr Mulpepper. After living in the Alley for most of my formative years, I'm a mean bargainer and I don't spend as much money as I was expecting to, but it's still a blow to my purse.

Stuffing my receipt in my pocket and exiting the shop with Viktor, I point the way towards the Three Broomsticks and we trek through the slushy snow. It feels weird to call any other establishment but the Leaky Cauldron a 'pub'. When I say 'the pub' it always means the Leaky Cauldron, and it's become a sort of archetype of pub-dom to me. The Three Broomsticks, pleasant though it is, has nothing to do with pubs as far as I'm concerned.

Viktor offers to carry my purchases and I turn him down as politely as I can, and then he asks, "Is it compulsory here to take potions class?" as we draw near the front door.

"For the first five years, yes, and then you can keep going for the last two if you want, like I have. Is it not at Durmstrang?"

"No, it's not required, but it's an option. One I didn't take."

"I really like potions. Our professor is the worst, but I'm good at it anyway."

"So you're really good at potions and you pick up languages as easily as breathing. You are bad at things, right?"

"Sure, totally," I say, pushing the door open. A gust of warm, fragrant air washes over us as we step inside. "Transfiguration boggles me, and my temper has a mind of its own."

"Ah, good," he says dryly. "At least I don't have to worry about you turning me into a cockroach if I make you angry."

"Don't worry, I only get mad if someone's trying to make me that way. Ask any of the girls I live with. Let's go sit over there."

He follows me through the crowded floor towards a small round table by the wall. "So what would they tell me?"

"That I'm a crazy dangerous hellion bitch," is my nonchalant reply.

"Wow." We take our seats. "So what's good to drink here?"

I puff out my cheeks and sigh it out. "Anything you want, I guess. Butterbeer's a favourite, but Rosemerta does meads and beers and hard stuff… anything you want, really."

"Okay. What can I get you?" he asks, rising from his chair.

"Oh, er, well…" My instinct is to refuse his offer. I always avoid all but the most necessary charity, and I don't want to feel like I'm taking advantage of him because he's rich (I think) and I'm poor (definitely). But it's a thing for boys to buy drinks for girls on dates, isn't it? _Is_ this a date? What _are_ we? Shoving these unproductive thoughts aside, I say, "A Butterbeer would be lovely, thanks."

I watch him negotiate his way to the bar, then idly scan over the rest of the crowd. It's mostly Hogwarts students, with the odd villager and professor thrown in the mix. It's a normal enough scene, but then someone shouts, "Who cares if he's half-giant? There's nothing wrong with him!"

The crowded bar room goes silent. I crane my head around and see Harry and his friends sitting at a table a little distance away from mine, and Rita Skeeter with her paunchy photographer at another table a little beyond them. Harry is glaring furiously at Skeeter, whose eyes gleam as she draws her acid green quill out of her handbag. "How about giving me an interview about the Hagrid _you_ know, Harry?" she purrs. "The man behind the muscles? Your unlikely friendship and the reasons behind it. Would you call him a father substitute?"

I raise my eyebrows. Even for a reporter, that's low. But not particularly low for Skeeter, I guess. Just then Hermione Granger jumps to her feet, holding her bottle as though she means to throw it at Skeeter. It's an admirable impulse, but probably not one she should follow through on, speaking as someone who has worked in a pub for a long time and understands who will get thrown out after such an altercation. But all she does is growl, "You horrible woman. You don't care, do you, anything for a story, anyone will do, won't they? Even Ludo Bagman—"

"Sit down, you silly little girl," Skeeter snaps. "And don't talk about things you don't understand. I know things about Ludo Bagman that would make your hair curl. I don't suppose you know that after winning games, he would go out to Muggle pubs and pick up women, do you?"

Well, _that_ sours my already bad opinion of him. If it's even true, considering the source. But somehow I think it is.

Hermione looks taken aback. "Let's go," she mutters. "C'mon, Harry—Ron…"

Viktor re-joins me as the trio leave. "What was that?" he asks, setting down a bottle of Butterbeer in front of me and a tankard of foamy beer for himself.

"No idea, but I can guess it was something to do with something Rita Skeeter wrote, and it sounded like it was something to do with Hagrid. He's our gameskeeper and Care of Magical Creatures teacher," I add, seeing his blank expression. We glance back towards Skeeter, whose quill is zipping back and forth across a page of parchment. She looks avid. I don't envy whoever her next outpouring of vitriol is aimed at, be it Harry or Hermione.

"Is Hogwarts always so dramatic?" he asks, sipping his beer and making an appreciative face.

"Only where Harry Potter's concerned," I grumble, having a gulp of my own drink. I can't stay grumpy when I have a Butterbeer though, and I settle more comfortably into my chair.

"I like it here at Hogwarts," he confesses easily. "The feeling is nicer than at Durmstrang, and it's warmer. As in the temperature," he says to my raised eyebrows. "Your lake isn't as cold as ours."

My eyes widen. "You went in the _Lake?_ In _January?_ Are you insane?" The secondary, task-related meaning of his words don't register for several seconds, and by then he's already talking so it's too late to say anything about it.

He shrugs, but a smile hovers, unrealized. "I swim for exercise. And like I said, it's not as bad here as it is at Durmstrang."

"Isn't literally everything frozen most of the year at Durmstrang?"

"Yes, completely frozen. But I didn't mean to go into our lake: there's a tradition where all your friends throw you in the water on your seventeenth birthday. People have gotten hypothermia and frostbite from it before. My birthday is in May, so it wasn't as bad as it might have been, but I still got a bad cold."

"At least Pepperup Potion exists, right?"

He shakes his head. "Unless it prevents you from attending classes, we do not receive treatment for injuries or illness."

I think of all the things people go to Madam Pomfrey for, and try to imagine her turning any of them away. It doesn't work very well. "Durmstrang's a bit barbaric, isn't it?"

"Like I said: I prefer being here."

We stay at the pub for close to three hours. He buys another round of drinks, despite the fact that I object this time, and he tries Butterbeer while I have a delicious honey mead. It occurs to me, at some point near midday, how important it is that we are only meeting now, as the people we are. I can't help but think that this… whatever we have, would not be possible if he had come here to Hogwarts instead of Durmstrang, if he had known me since I was eleven and even angrier and spikier than I am now, if I was only one more person who treated him normally before he got recruited.

I break a long moment of silence by saying, with some effort, "A while ago you told me you liked me because I treated you like you were a regular person. I never really thought about why I like you, but…" I force myself to stop tracing the wet circles that my drink left on the table top, and look up at him. His eyes are dark and intent. My gaze flicks back down. "I think it's kind of for the same reason. If I weren't so… new to you, I suppose, I don't think you'd be sitting there drinking Butterbeer with me. You know nothing about me, and that's…" I search, wishing fluency with language were synonymous with fluency with feelings. "that's new for me, and exciting. I set myself up badly here when I arrived, socially that is, and it made it so that I made a reputation for myself that makes people unwilling to approach me. So I guess I just want you to know I appreciate that, a lot. And that I'm sorry I don't tell you much about myself. I'm just not…" I huff a sigh, forcing back a hot scratchy feeling in my eyes. "Not used to being honest, I guess."

He doesn't say anything for what feels like a very long time, and I eventually stop examining the floor and glance up at him. He's still looking at me, and I feel heat rise in my cheeks. "That was honest," he says.

"Yeah, but I mean, about other stuff…" I fumble to clarify myself. "I don't trust people easily. Bigby, who I mentioned earlier? When we first met, we had a fight for nearly an hour before I let him help me, and it was raining on us and I was such a stupid stubborn idiot about it… I mean, I still am a stupid stubborn idiot, but at least I'm aware of it now and—"

He extends a hand towards me, almost touching my hands but not quite. I stop babbling, feeling quivery and raw. "I don't mind that I don't know much about you. I don't need to. You'll tell me whatever you want whenever you want. Right now I'll know you as a dandelion."

I am too stunned to speak. I don't know what I expected after dumping all that stuff on him, but to be such a gentleman is unprecedented to my whole experience. All I can do is nod, and agree, "Okay," in a small voice.

"I would like one thing though," he says, eyes brightening perceptibly.

My heart hiccups. "What?"

"I'd like to meet this elusive best friend of yours."

My grin erupts. "That can happen."

So, eight days after this conversation, on Sunday, I bring Edgar down to supper. I rarely take him out of the dorm these days due to his age: he spends the majority of his time asleep on my pillow, only waking up briefly to eat or interact with me. His fur is patchy, his eyes rheumy, but he always knows who I am. He accepts it with the ferret version of a resigned sigh when I tell him I want him to meet someone that evening, but climbs into my outstretched hands and takes his old usual spot, hanging down my back in the hood of my robes. I'd accidentally missed lunch, so I haven't seen Viktor yet today, but he seems to go for early suppers on the weekends, so I'm pretty sure I'll catch him.

Just as I thought, I barely have time to sit down before Viktor takes the seat across from mine. "I tried calling for you. Didn't you hear?"

"Oh, sorry. So many people have begun talking to me since I was chosen as champion, I've just learned to ignore everyone."

He looks mollified. "I suppose I do that at games too."

I bob my head agreeably for a few minutes as we load our plates, but then I say, "I have someone for you to meet." He narrows his eyes at me, hearing something a little too _too_ in my voice.

"Who?" he asks dubiously.

"My friend, Edgar. Remember you wanted to meet him?"

He sits up straight and looks around expectantly and I grin all the more widely. Picking a little piece of chicken up from my plate, I lift it and tap it on my shoulder to get Edgar's attention. Once he smells it, he sits up and climbs up on top of my shoulder to follow it as I draw it forward.

I enjoy Viktor's expression immensely. "Your best friend is a... ferret?" he says.

My grin widens. "My best and oldest. I rescued-slash-kidnapped him from my Muggle school at the end of my last year there. I mean, I didn't know it would be my last year, it was just a fortunate coincidence. But he came with me here and it's worked out fantastically. He's getting old now and he sleeps most of the time, but he roused his old bones when he heard I wanted him to meet you."

Viktor is not done being confused, but Edgar has finished his assessment of my new… friend, and snorts disdainfully in my ear. "Ooh, be kind," I mutter to him in English. He butts my jaw with his head and grumbles at me indistinctly, so I give him more chicken and he subsides.

"Wait, did you say rescued or kidnapped?"

"It was a bit of both: we had this iguana that died near the end of the year, so the teacher got Edgar for the classroom, but he was obviously miserable, so I bundled him into my bag on the last day and brought him home. So yeah, kidnap, rescue… it's a thin line."

He shakes his head. "The more I know about you, the more impressed I am."

"Eh, well…" I feel my face warming up again. "Half the class wanted to take him home. He was tiny and adorable—" Edgar raises his head and gives my ear a warning nip. "And has only gotten more so as he's aged," I add, dragging him off my shoulder and checking to see if my ear is bleeding, which it isn't. Edgar, now on the table, sets about investigating my plate. "Like I said, half the class wanted him. I'm just the one that acted on it."

"Can I pet him?"

"Ask."

He gives me an unconvinced look. "Edgar, may I pet you?"

"He doesn't understand Bulgarian."

"Bah. Edgar, I vould like to… to meet you, okay?"

Edgar glances at him and flicks his ear.

"He said yes. That's what that ear thing means."

"You're joking."

"Look, I know I sound like the ferret version of a crazy cat lady, but I've had him for nearly seven years and I know what I'm doing."

Still looking uncertain, Viktor reaches across the table and strokes Edgar's head. Edgar permits this, and I look on happily.

Edgar crawls back inside my robes after a while and falls asleep, stuffed with food and replete with attention, which we showered on him generously. We chat about nothing for a while, I complain about classes. We agree to split our talks evenly between Bulgarian and English so that he can practice. I've been careful to keep our conversation topics refreshingly mundane after my outpouring in the Three Broomsticks, and he has played along perfectly. Whether that's because he knows I'm trying to avoid those sensitive topics I told him about or because he actually enjoys our nonchalance, I don't know, but I appreciate it.

But since it's Sunday, I have to go finish Runes stuff I've been neglecting all week, and we say goodnight. I shower gratitude on Edgar all the way back to the Tower, which he pretends not to enjoy.

Two days later, I'm mulling over marmaladed toast and tea when the post owls arrive, as usual, and two letters fall into my plate. One of them is from Regina: I've learned to recognize her handwriting, and she sends me the thickest letters anyway. We've begun drafting our article, and I'm terribly excited about it, but since reading and sorting out a reply will be quite time consuming, I set it aside for later. But the other script, I do not recognize. I turn the letter over curiously, and my toast-bearing hand stops cold halfway to my mouth when I see the return address is 'The Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages, London Campus'. Dropping the toast, I rip it open and devour the words on the page.

_Miss Linese… assessment concluded… invite you… 18th_ _of February… sincerely, Euro-Glyph faculty…_

"Do you haff good news?" Viktor asks, sipping coffee. As per our agreement, today is an English day.

"I think so…" I say breathlessly, rereading the letter. "I've been invited back for my second interview with the Euro-Glyph School. It's the one where they'll tell if I've been accepted or not."

"Are you vorried you vill not be accepted?"

"I don't think so… I mean, I'm writing an article with one of the faculty, so they can't really reject me given that, can they? But I mean, I think Professor Vinnoy _really_ hates me, and Madam Surebeak said one of my essays was only mechanically average, and even Miss Zeldin might not care since I'm not going to be studying dead magical languages with her…"

"I am not understanding all of that," he says seriously. "But I think you vill be fine."

My lips hitch up half a smile, but I'm too preoccupied to thank him properly. "The eighteenth is a Saturday… I'll have to check if Professor McGonagall can take me down… and I should write and tell Bigb_oomph!"_ Over the months of my correspondence with Bigby and Madam Malkin, Budge has made it into a game to see if he can sneak up on me when he delivers their letters. I usually catch him at it, but today the Euro-Glyph letter distracts me and earns me a mouthful of feathers. He shrieks triumphantly, flapping just out of reach when I make a grab for him. "Good morning, you little bastard," I grumble, spitting feathers and pulling one out of my ear. "Letter please." Twittering like he thinks he's the cleverest thing on two wings, he extends his leg to me and lets me take the letter. It's only a couple lines long: Madam Malkin is still huffy that Bigby and Viktor agree that I look like a dandelion in the cloak she gave me, even though I've told her I like it. Bigby has been running ideas for his next tattoo by me lately, and they have all been a bit rubbish so far. "_flock up,_" I tell Budge. "_you know the drill."_ Agreeing that he does know the drill and doesn't that make him just brilliant, he joins the last avian stragglers on their way to the Owlry.

I check to see if Professor McGonagall is at the staff table, but she's absent, so I'll have to wait till I catch up with her before I can RSVP to the Euro-Glyph School. But in the meantime, I have half the morning free before Defence, so I tell Viktor good morning and I'd see him later and then hurry off to the library.

I am supremely excited about Regina's and my article. The last draft was ten pages long, but we haven't yet incorporated all of the examples and anecdotes which Master Jerome has given us nor done any analysis of them, so the final product will be closer to twenty-five or thirty. In the page-long personal letter at the front, she asks me to pay special attention to the section on idiom vs. metaphor because we're tracing a very fine line there and she's not sure she's quite got it. She doesn't say anything about my interview.

I fill a happy couple of hours till Defense, where we're still on silent spell casting and Ash nearly takes Rosemary's nose off with a poorly aimed silent Severing Charm. Slytherin lost twenty points and Rosemary lost quite a quantity of blood, so I count it a very good class all around. We get out of class a little late because of that though, so lunch is already in full swing by the time I get down to the Great Hall. Down at the end of Gryffindor table, I see Viktor hunched over a bowl of stew, and standing at the opposite side of the table are a group of fifth- and sixth-year girls, all looking a bit miffed. I sigh: this happens every so often when he beats me to a meal. Other people—mainly girls—will try to sit with him, citing my absence as their sanction to do so.

"…since she's not here!" some mouthy sixth year whose name (I think) is Tallulah is exclaiming as I come up behind the group.

"Who's not here?" I ask brightly, and they all jump a foot in the air.

"N-no one," another girl stutters, eyes wide.

"Good. Then I guess there's no problem. Thank you for keeping Viktor company. I expect you have places to be."

They slump away, giving me murderous glances over their shoulders. "Hi," I say, dumping my bag on the bench. "One second."

Pulling the Euro-Glyph letter out of my pocket, I approach the teacher's table where Professor McGonagall is talking to Professor Sprout. I hover awkwardly till they notice me and Professor McGonagall waves me forward, saying "Yes, Linese, yes?"

"I've, um, had a letter from the Euro-Glyph School," I tell her, offering the parchment. "They've invited me back for my second interview, to tell me if I'm accepted or not. I was hoping that you would be able to Apparate there with me again."

She peruses the letter carefully through her rectangular lenses, then hands it back to me. "That should be just fine, Miss Linese. Shall we agree to meet at the Leaky Cauldron afterwards, in case this one goes as long as the first?"

I smile sheepishly. "Probably, yeah."

"Excellent. Have a pleasant afternoon."

I go to leave, then turn back. "Actually, Professor, I was wondering: I remember Mr Bagman told us this, but what time is the second task? Half past an hour, I think, but which one? My, er, preparations are quite time-sensitive."

"I'm afraid I don't actually… Albus?" She leans forward to see the Headmaster around Snape. "What time of day is the second task? Miss Linese' preparations need to know."

"Half nine on the twenty-fourth of next month," Professor Dumbledore says, eyes twinkling.

"Ta, sir."

I go back to where Viktor's sitting, already mostly done with his food. "Not in trouble, are you?" It's a Bulgarian day.

"Of course not," I scoff. "I was checking that Professor McGonagall can take me to my interview next month."

"Can't you get there yourself? You're taught to Apparate at the same time as us, right?"

"If we can pay for it, yes," I say bitterly. "Unfortunately, sixteen Galleons was a little steep for me. I'll do it once I begin working properly this summer and store up some savings."

He nods with his brow furrowed thoughtfully.

"Do you think this is oat bread?" I ask idly.

I have Runes with Professor Babbling in the afternoon, and I give her the latest draft of Regina's and my article to read. She and Sir Tibby are both going to be credited as editors and Master Jerome as a contributor. But Professor Babbling is notoriously difficult to keep on task unless the task is hers, so the second half of class is spent discussing the exact timeline of the drift between Druidic and Futhark runes.

After class, back in the dorm where Alexandra and India are doing their very best to figure out the Divination homework, I take out the Euro-Glyph letter again and fold it into the pages of the book Bigby once gave me for Christmas, _Notable Witches of History_. It's kind of become a repository of all my important documents and things over the years. It's where I keep my copy of the photo of Bigby and Madam Malkin's wedding, and my first Hogwarts letter, which I had carefully preserved by taping it to the inside of the lid of my trunk. This year especially, I've started pressing important letters between the pages, from Bigby and Madam Malkin, or Regina, or Sir Tibby or Master Jerome. Now the Euro-Glyph invitation is joining the ranks. The book's getting a little swollen by now, but I'm proud of it because it means I'm doing things with my life.

The next day, I go from supper to the dorm to collect a few things, then to a disused broom closet on the sixth floor that I've adopted as my work space. I arrange all of my ingredients in rows next to the copy of my cauldron I made for the duration of the month, beneath the page of the instructions I've got taped on the wall. Edgar arranges himself a bed from a spare jumper I brought for him and goes to sleep in the corner. It's a cramped space: between him and me and the cauldron, there's barely space for the containers of ingredients and my scales. From six till just before eleven, I read class books and take notes for the next Transfiguration essay by wand light.

At exactly eleven-oh-one PM, I begin. The base fluids are a third of a pint of boar's urine and an unspecified-size sample of the body of water the brewer wishes to submerge themselves in. I had gone down earlier in the day after Transfiguration and filled a standard potions flask with lake water, wincing as I dipped my fingers into the freezing water. I hope it'll be warmer in a month, but it probably won't be.

The first four hours are the trickiest, according to the recipe. The fluid has to be taken on and off a low simmer at ten-minute intervals for the first three hours, after which the lid goes on for another hour till the fourth hour on the minute, when the stale oat bread and half of the fourteen grams of iron shavings go in the cauldron, followed by four minutes of counter clockwise stirring, after which the lid goes back on and it sits still for twelve hours.

It's past three in the morning when I place the lid on and lift Edgar, and sneak as quietly as I can up a nearby flight of stairs that gets me to within two hallways of the Fat Lady. I extinguish my wand so as not to wake other portraits along the way, but when I get there, the Fat Lady is snoring operatically, slouched against her frame. It takes several minutes of rattling her frame and shouting the password before she lets me in, grumbling at me blindly. The fire in the fireplace has burned down to embers, and casts ruddy shadows across the room. I look over towards the girls' stairs, shake my head, and sink down into a plush armchair. Edgar snuggles into the curve of my waist and I plunge into sleep…

Next thing I know, the sun's beaming in my eyes and a bunch of third years are whispering around me. They look incredibly relieved when I groan and sit up, finding a terrific crick in my neck as I do so.

"You weren't breathing," one of them tells me in a dramatic whisper.

"We thought you were _dead_," says another.

"Well, I'm not, as much as my neck makes me wish I were," I grumble, rolling my shoulders despite their complaints. "What time is it?"

"Nearly time for class. You've missed breakfast."

"Oh, great." I lever myself up, feeling Edgar shift around in the voluminous pocket of my robes. He must have climbed in there sometime during the night. "Thanks for waking me."

They scurry away, whispering to each other and getting weird looks from older students. Stiff and unhappy, I collect my Charms and Potions books and slog off to class.

My days fall into a pattern. Or rather, the lack of pattern becomes a pattern. I lose odd hours of sleep, and more than once wake up in the common room. There are a few near misses with the potion, which I only save by begging a teacher to let me go to the loo in the middle of class, or by skipping meals. Viktor and I continue eating together whenever we can, and I somehow fit in regular studying and respond to all my letters in a relatively timely fashion.

Nearly three weeks after beginning the potion, I stumble back to the dorm, having woken up at 6:30 in order to drop one desiccated beetle eye per minute into the potion for exactly an hour. I'm preoccupied with chemical details as I climb the stairs to the girls' dorms, wondering if there's a way for desiccated beetle eyes to go stale or wrong somehow, because the potion had not become quite the right shade of mustard-yellow by the time the hour was up, and I'm not sure if that means it should stew a little longer to compensate, or whether I should storm down to the apothecary in Hogsmeade and throw a fit, or if it just looked funny in the wand light and is actually fine, or if I've just made some other kind of error, or—

"Well Nita, what's left to make today special, hm?"

I look up from rummaging in my trunk. Rosemary is standing in the middle of the room, looking like a poker player with a very good hand and a very bad face. India and Alexandra are on India's bed looking on excitedly, and it sounds like Kay is washing her teeth.

"Beg your pardon?" I ask wearily. I'd been up late writing to Regina, and then woke up early for the potion, and am in no fit state to spar wits.

"You know what the date is, don't you?" It appears my foe is confident enough to be patient. Usually if her attacks are fueled by momentary anger or whatever, she'll spit it right out. Not so today.

I happen to know quite well what the date is, given how carefully I've been keeping track to brew the potion. "The fourteenth."

"Of…?"

"…Tuesday?"

"February, you dumb twit!" she shouts.

"So what?" I ask tiredly. All I want is to go downstairs and have breakfast with lots of strong tea.

"So it's _Valentine's Day!_"

"So what?" I repeat. "Roger's still with Fleur."

Her face seems to swell with anger. "That is not my point! I _asked_ what you have left to make it special? Hm?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I tell her baldly, turning back to my trunk to find clean knickers and a new shirt.

"Oh no?" Her voice has recovered its previous confidence: my jibe about Roger might never have happened. "Where do you go all those nights you don't sleep here then?"

It's not technically allowed to brew potions outside of class, even if it's so that I can win the Triwizard Tournament. "I'm… working," I say evasively, standing and brushing past her on the way to the bathroom.

"On Viktor Krum's cock?" she screams, veneer of nonchalance shattering.

_That_ jolts my sleepy mind into high gear. I turn around slowly, letting my hands rise to my hips. "Yes, that's what you'd do, isn't it? For your information, no, that's not what I'm working on. But by all means, carry on. Jealousy is a good look on you."

I don't wait for a retort. The bathroom door slams satisfyingly and Kay looks up sleepily from the sink.

"Alright?" I say, going to one of the toilet stalls to change clothes.

"Awigh'," she agrees around a mouthful of toothpaste. I hear her spit. "You shouldn't let Rosemary get to you like that, you know. It only makes her more determined to beat you later when you fight back."

"I'm not going to roll over and play dead for her just because she's too stupid to back off." Now fully dressed, I hurry back into the dorm, down through the castle, and into the Great Hall. Viktor doesn't even seem aware of the date when he sits down with me, and I certainly don't care enough to bring it up, so the rest of the day is uneventful.

The morning of February 18th finds me in the closet again, sweating and angry. The potion has been on a high boil for close to four hours, with three hours still to go, which means I am going to miss lunch and will barely have time to have a shower before Professor McGonagall takes me to my interview in London. The cramped space of the closet is baking hot. Not to mention, I had to miss the first half of Snape's class yesterday to tend to the potion. The irony is not lost on me, but since I could make no good excuse, I now have a detention to fulfill this evening.

Professor McGonagall looks just as harried as I feel when we meet in the Entry Hall at 3, and leads me at an almost uncomfortably quick clip down to the perimeter wall so that we can Apparate. We twist through breathless dark, and then my feet hit pavement and I heave in a breath, pressing down hard on my stomach to make sure its contents don't reappear. "I will meet you at the Leaky Cauldron later this afternoon," she says shortly, and turns on the spot and vanishes again.

Thinking unkindly that Apparation lessons should be free if teachers don't want to be bothered about stuff like this, I leave the narrow alley and walk the half block to the Euro-Glyph School's entrance. I've been too busy all day to be nervous, but now anxiety crashes over me full force. This is the afternoon that will determine the course of my future. If I don't get accepted here, I have no plans. For several moments, my nerves hit such a pitch that I feel as though my body has disappeared and I'm just a brain floating five feet and a few inches above the ground. So when my hand reaches out and knocks on the door, I'm quite surprised.

"It's open!" a voice I recognize calls, and I open to the door to see Suzy Sunday standing on top of her chair to reach a high-up drawer in the filing cabinet behind the desk. "Nita, hi!" she says happily. "You're here to be accepted, right?"

My smile is shaky. "Hopefully, yeah."

"Oh, please, as if you have anything to worry about. You're still writing that article with Barlock, right?"

It takes me a second to remember Barlock is Regina's surname, but then I agree.

"Then you have nothing to worry about. Let me see if anyone's around to take you up…" Not getting off the chair, she leans around the doorjamb and shouts "Oi! Anyone there?"

"I'm busy!" another voice shouts back, strongly Welsh.

"Well stop being busy for an instant!" Suzy retorts. "This is important!"

A few moments later, a frazzled young woman appears in the doorway, wiry red hair tied up in a messy bun on top of her head, glasses askew, and every other evidence of a beleaguered and harried lifestyle present. "Suzy," she is saying. "I have not slept for two days because of this project, and if I could get _one more bleeding hour _of uninterrupted—" She sees me. "Oh, hello."

"Hi."

"Are you…?" She runs out of question.

"This," Suzy sounds smug, "is our rising star Nita Linese, reviled by Vinnoy and touted by Tibby, and already writing an article with Barlock before she's even been accepted. Mind showing her up to two-six?"

The red-haired woman looks at me blankly for a few seconds, then extends her hand. "I'm Avery Hawken. Pleasure."

We shake. "Likewise. I haven't slept much recently either."

"Two-six," Suzy repeats firmly. "Good luck Nita, even though you don't need it!"

Avery leads me up the familiar path of the stairs and the hallway, and knocks on the door marked 2-6. "Come in!" says Madam Surebeak's voice. Avery opens the door and motions me inside.

Only five of the teachers sit around the table this time: Vinnoy is conspicuously absent. Sir Tibby leaps to his feet as the door clicks shut behind me. "My dear girl!" he exclaims, beaming as he bustles around the table to shake my hand. "My dear, dear girl, sit down!" I do, a little unnerved by his enthusiasm. But the smiles (or, in Madam Surebeak's case, the not-frown) on the faces of the rest of the faculty (particularly Regina's), causes a little swell of hope and anticipation under my lungs.

There's a pregnant silence, but then Regina exclaims, "Oh, let's just have out with it. Nita, congratulations: we're very excited to welcome you to the Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages."

I sag with relief, and feel my face splitting into a great stupid smile.

"Oh, you can't mean to tell us you were in any doubt about your admittance," Madam Surebeak sighs at my reaction. "As if we could ignore a gift like yours. Dragor might be a self-important American cynic, but he does not wield the power to exclude you from this institution."

"In fact, your admittance was unanimous in the end," Regina puts in cheerfully.

"You're joking," I accuse, though I'm not sure she is.

"Not at all," Sir Tibby re-joins gleefully. "Picture this: you have just left your first interview, which went on for an unprecedented length of time. During this interval, you manage to seriously impress the five of us and alienate Dragor, which, we grant you, is not difficult—"

"Though I've never heard of him storming out of an interview before," Master Jerome interjects.

"Very true," Sir Tibby allows. "But anyway. The reason it took so long for us to contact you again was that Dragor is irredeemably stubborn, and we wanted to give you the unanimous vote you deserved. What finally did it was making him imagine this: you are up on a great big stage somewhere, accepting an important award and during your acceptance speech, you mention him, and how him being such an arsehole made you strive all the harder, and then you'd make him stand up and accept a round of applause. Finally, to get us to shut up, he agreed to vote yes, and here we are. Now, I'm not saying we think you're vindictive enough to do something like that to him—"

"Don't put it past me," I mumble, earning grins from Miss Zeldin and Master Jerome and a slightly dismayed look from Regina. One thing her letters have communicated to me between the lines is that she's quite sheltered and innocent.

"—but it should communicate to you the extent of his pride. Now." Sir Tibby makes a church of his fingers and bends his sharp and merry gaze upon me. "After imparting the good news, we usually like to take a few minutes to discuss the likely curriculum of the new student. What are your preliminary thoughts on the subject?"

"Well, I'd like to keep working with Regina, even if our article is done by then…"

"Naturally," Regina concurs.

Sir Tibby nods agreeably. "Certainly, certainly, no need to interrupt a perfectly good working relationship. Anything else?"

"Well, I mean, I'd like to work on any kind of, you know, current language I possibly can—oh, I speak Bulgarian and Mermish now—but…"

"But you are in the unfortunate position of being loathed by the Professor of Extant Magical Tongues," Madam Surebeak finishes for me. "We know that better than you."

"So if you wish to study living languages, you'll be studying with me, since Master Jerome's stay here will have expired," Sir Tibby pronounces happily. "Oh dear, what a bother, I've been saddled with the most exciting genius prodigy we've ever seen in our history, whatever shall I do?" He winks at me, smiling widely under his beard.

Regina clears her throat pointedly and he flaps a hand, dismissing his own joke. Over the course of an hour, my future takes shape. I'm to study under Regina and Sir Tibby at the London campus for several years, then go abroad to one of the other campuses to study magical languages with a teacher that's not Vinnoy. Unfortunately I have to meet Professor McGonagall at the pub at 5 in order to eat and get back to Hogwarts in time for my detention, so this interview can't turn into the long, meandering conversation of the first. But my departure is full of warm farewells and promises that several of them would be at the second task.

The walk between the School and the pub seems over in the blink of an eye, and before I know it I'm stepping into the Leaky Cauldron and greeting Tom, Mary, Bigby, Madam Malkin, Rachael, and Professor McGonagall, just like after the first time. Only this time I'm expecting it.

"Well?" Madam Malkin demands impatiently.

I grin. "I'm accepted."

The following few minutes are a storm of congratulations and happy cheers from the others, and we attract a great deal of attention from other people in the pub. Tom swiftly serves up the soup of the day and we fall into conversation. I forbid Bigby from putting his latest tattoo idea, a large spider's web with a tarantula on it, on his bare skull, Madam Malkin quizzes me on where I plan to live after I graduate, and Rachael offers the second room in her flat since the girl currently living there is moving out to live with her boyfriend at the end of the year. I feel a bit drunk with all of my good fortune.

Eventually, someone asks how the Tournament is going, and I find the vaguest way possible to say it's going well.

"You know what the second task _is_, don't you?" Mary asks.

"Oh, sure: the merpeople in the lake are going to hold something of mine hostage and I've an hour to get it back. No idea what it's gonna be. My wand maybe, but I don't know. I hope it's not my wand."

I have to go promptly in order to meet my detention, as I ruefully explain to Madam Malkin, who is tacitly disapproving but wishes me the very best in the task next week, a sentiment echoed by the rest of the gathering. Professor McGonagall and I step into darkness together and re-emerge a little distance outside of Hogsmeade.

"Hm. A little farther away than I meant," she murmurs. "We'll have to walk." We set off up the path in silence, but she speaks when we're about halfway to the castle. "How _are_ your preparations for the task going, Linese? I trust they're timed properly."

"Oh, er, yes ma'am, I think it's going to work."

"Do you mind me asking what it is?" she asks archly. I cringe. She can tell what I'm doing isn't quite allowed.

"Will you promise not to make me stop if I tell you?" I blurt, only realizing afterwards how childish it sounds, and that I'm talking to a professor whose very job it is to keep students like me in line.

"I will do no such thing. However, I asked purely out of academic interest, not the desire to get you in trouble."

I consider this and find it good enough. I explain about the potion, though I don't tell her where I'm brewing it. She looks thoughtful when I wind down. "I'll be very interested to see it in action," is all she says, and I relax. "Your friends must be very excited for you," she comments lightly after a few steps taken in silence.

I squint up at her. "Professor, you know perfectly well that I'm not exactly popular."

"Not being popular doesn't mean you don't have friends," she points out reasonably.

"Well… yes it does, sort of."

"Do you mean no one is excited to see you compete on the twenty-fourth?"

Growing more confused by the second, I respond, "People may be excited, but more to see whether this task does a better job of seriously injuring me than the dragon did."

I see her purse her lips from the corner of my eye. "I've noticed you and Mister Krum have been spending a good deal of time together since the Yule Ball. Would you call him a friend?"

"Ye-e-e-s, I suppose so…"

She misunderstands my tone. "I'm not going to reprimand you for forging an interschool friendship, Miss Linese. I am not Karkaroff."

"No ma'am," I agree.

We've reached the gates by now and trek up the grounds towards the school. "No friends besides Krum…" I hear her grumble as we pass the Durmstrang ship. She sounds like my state of near-hermit-dom is a personal offense to her.

"Well, there is Edgar," I protest. "He's definitely a friend. My best friend!"

"Who…? I'm not familiar with a student named Edgar. What is his last name?"

"He's my ferret."

There is a breath's worth of a pause. "Of course he is. Don't be late for your detention, Linese."

Hearing the dismissal, I make a dash for the dungeons, where I spend an hour scrubbing the desks free of graffiti and pissing Snape off by whistling the whole time, before settling into the sixth-floor closet for a night of potion-sitting.

**A/N**

**The name of the chapter is 'progress' and that's what we get! She's learning to trust Viktor, working out how to survive the next task, and getting accepted to the Euro-Glyph School. Life may not always be easy, but sometimes it is good. :)**

**Chapter 11, "The Singers", will go up next Tuesday!**

**All characters (except for mine) are owned by JK Rowling, Warner Bros, etc.**

**E.I. signing out**


	11. The Singers

**Dialogue inside ~tildes~ is in Mermish. Enjoy!**

_Chapter 11 – The Singers_

I position the funnel carefully, going so far as to hold my breath so that I don't jostle the lid over the cauldron. The lid has covered the cauldron for the past four days, letting it stew and form the film over the top I will need to breathe underwater. But since the lid has been on for the past four days, I have no idea if it's worked or not. The funnel is one I'd nicked from the Potions supply closet because it has a flat, narrow end, so it can fit under cauldron lids with minimal disturbance to the contents. I'm administering the final ingredient, a separately stewed mix of essence of trout lung and the black widow skin. Together they look like sludgy sick, and I try not to think that that mess will be all over my face in only—I conjure a timepiece—only _twenty minutes!_ Merlin's sodding balls! How had it taken so long just to add some mushed up animal bits?

I grab the cauldron by the handle and elbow the closet door open, pressing down on the lid and hoping that a bit of a jostle won't hinder the potion's progress. I dash down through and out of the castle, and everyone I pass calls encouragement after me, or asks what the cauldron's for.

The seats that had surrounded the dragon's enclosure in November are now ranged along the far bank of the lake and are packed with students. I examine the layout as I trot along the lake's perimeter. The judges are again arrayed behind a table covered in golden cloth, and just as at the Yule Ball, Percy Weasley has mysteriously taken Mr Crouch's place. A section of the first two rows is dedicated to professors, and I note Sir Tibby, Regina, and Master Jerome seated between Professor Flitwick and Professor Babbling. They all wave exuberantly when I come around the edge of the lake and I nod back. Viktor and Fleur are already by the water, though Harry is nowhere in sight. Fleur's in her regular silky robes, but Viktor's in swimming shorts. I've never seen him without a shirt on before and I feel my face warm—

"You are very nearly late, Miss Linese!" Percy barks in the fussy voice I remember from his days as a Prefect.

I shoot him a glare and snap, "Yes, but I'm not, am I?" He pushes his glasses up his nose and bends his superior eye on something else. Bagman gives me a nasty look, which I don't understand. Unless his commentating distracts me at the bottom of the lake, I'm not going to do anything to him.

"Good morning, Nheeta," Viktor says as I come up next to him, now with my face under control. It's an English day. "Are you ready for the task?"

"I hope so," I say, hefting the cauldron. "Won't know till I get the lid off in…" I look around. "Got a watch?"

"There are seven and a half minutes until the task begins." Professor McGonagall seems to have materialized at my shoulder. "Have you seen Potter?"

"Er, no, I haven't…"

"He is there." Viktor points back up to the castle where the last few stragglers are coming out from breakfast. Weaving between them, two figures are sprinting, one of which has Harry's trademark black hair, the other of which appears to be his friend Hermione, the elf rights girl. I wonder why Ron's not with them, but don't dwell on it. Professor McGonagall makes a placated noise and sweeps off to mutter to the Headmaster.

I use the final few minutes before the task starts for last-minute preparations. I step out of my shoes and strip off my outer robe and place it, folded, on the ground. I've got a long-sleeved shirt and jeans on underneath. I want clothes that will cover my limbs to hopefully ward off some of the cold of the water, but not something that will get tangled and make it impossible to swim. I'm not very confident about swimming anyway. I haven't been in a body of water larger than a bath tub since coming to Hogwarts, and it was several years before that that I was last in a pool.

Harry arrives with four minutes to go. Viktor is pacing and Fleur is standing by the shore, staring into the water nervously. I'm drumming idly on the lid of the cauldron, wishing the seconds would tick on faster. I really want to see if the potion works, both from an academic standpoint and from a childish part of myself that wants to be proud of what I've done.

Bagman comes around and spaces the four of us out along the shore at intervals of ten feet. He actually leads the others to their positions, but merely points to tell me where to go. I'm between Fleur and Viktor, who has Harry on his other side. I feel the seconds ticking past, and I grow increasingly nervous that too much time has gone by, that the potion will be useless and I'll have to use the Bubble-Head Charm and the month of work will be wasted…

Suddenly, Bagman's voice rings out across the water, magically amplified and booming. "Well, all our champions are ready for the second task, which will start on my whistle. They have precisely an hour to recover what has been taken from them. On the count of three, then. One… two… _three!"_

I kneel and fling off the cauldron lid, revealing the potion inside. Just as the recipe described, there's a clear, jelly-like film over the top of the tannish-brown potion. It's started to curl in and turn purple at the very edges, so I grab it and peel it from the cauldron, and slap it over my face, giving myself no time to think. The stuff smells strongly of bad breath, but then it adheres to my face, forming flawlessly to me like a second skin and I can't smell anything at all, and I can't breathe and the world looks wobbly and weird. I throw myself at the water, strongly aware that the film will curdle if it doesn't meet the lake water within seconds.

The cold of the water is agony. Uneasy though I had been about the swimming, and the temperature, nothing could have prepared me for this. The water is like knives, like fire, like burning hot oil in a pan that sears my chest and leaves me scarred…. I convulse, trying to control myself, trying to master the pain, and slowly, _slowly_, it subsides. My body acclimates and the pain lessens. And when I can finally think of something else, I realize I'm breathing. The potion worked! Bursting with pride for my work, I strike out for deeper water, stroking awkwardly with my arms and kicking.

I stay fairly shallow, both to figure out swimming and to become accustomed to the sensation of breathing underwater. I have to close my eyes at first, because instructing my lungs to expand when my eyes see I'm surrounded by water leads quickly to hyperventilation and panic. But once my body gets used to the idea, I carry on quite smoothly, though not very quickly.

As I go on, I notice that time doesn't seem the same as it does on land. I try to keep track of the seconds as I pass over the undulating fields of greenish weed, swaying in the currents, so much like grass in the wind. Since the film covers my eyes I can see clearly around me, but all there is to see is silt and murky water. Nothing more than ten feet away from me exists. And another problem develops as well: I don't know where the mer-village is. This makes me grim for a minute, till I come upon an idea. I find a hillock, bare of plants, with an old rotten log jutting out of it. This I perch upon, draw a deep breath of dry air, and call out in shrill Mermish, ~Help! Help! I'm lost!~ I wait for a moment, then do it again, making it high and plaintive. It takes five times, but eventually a form emerges out of the murk. There were illustrations of merpeople in Dylan Marwood's book, but they were simple black and white sketches, and I have to take a moment to admire the merwoman approaching me. From the top of her head to the tip of her tail, she was seven or eight feet tall, her skin a soft greenish grey, her keen eyes yellow, her face strangely shaped. She has a long two-pronged spear and a necklace of a kind of large, sharp teeth. It makes me think of sharks, but I'm pretty sure there are no sharks in the Lake. I _hope _there are no sharks in the Lake. A belt woven of twine and stones holds a long, jagged knife flat along the flank of her tail.

~It was you who called?~ She sounds angry and incredulous, but also confused.

~I need to find your village. You have something of mine.~

~You speak our tongue. Are you older than you seem?~

~I don't know how you measure age, but I'm young for a human. Can you show me to the village, please?~

She stares at me for another minute, then nods curtly and turns away. I push myself off the log and paddle after her. She becomes impatient with my clumsy progress after a very short while, and grabs me by the scruff of the neck and drags me along as she takes off at the swimming equivalent of a sprint. I can't lift my head against the force of the water, and my hair is plastered flat against my head and covers my eyes.

Her grip is verging on painful by the time her speed finally abates and we drift to a halt. I can hear lilting strains of song on the current:

"_...__you're past half through,  
__s__wim fast and faster so  
__your __loved thing is returned to you."_

More than half gone! ~Thank you,~ I call back to the merwoman, and strike out in the direction the song is coming from.

As I get closer, monoliths begin to rear up at me out of the murk, carved with scenes of merpeople who seem to be doing battle with the giant squid. Eventually, I came to what was clearly the village. Rudimentary stone cottages humped out of the dimness, and in the dark windows, faces flashed, curious and strange. The houses become more numerous as I swim on, and merpeople begin to come out of them and watch me, and talk to one another, whispering behind their hands like children telling secrets. Part of me wants to call out to them in Mermish, but the bigger part knows it's more important to finish the task. In the centre of the village is an enormous stone statue of a merman, surrounded by a great crowd of merpeople, and a choir of merpeople singing the song that has guided me here. As I swim closer I discern two figures tied to the statue's tail, and another floats nearby, apprehension evident in his posture. He resolves into Harry as I get closer still, and the two figures tied up are Ron Weasley and a girl who can only be Fleur's younger sister. They both appear to be deeply asleep, and thin streams of bubbles issue from their mouths periodically. A tangle of frayed rope hangs next to Ron: evidently Viktor has been here already. But, where is my…?

Harry tugs my arm and points past Fleur's sister, whose waving robes obscure most of a small mesh bag that holds—Edgar!

I awkwardly and angrily swim-walk to the other side of the huge statue and scrabble at the knot that secures the bag to the rope that binds Ron and Fleur's sister to the statue's tail. Like the other two, Edgar appears to be unconscious, but unlike the others, he is surrounded by a magical undulating bubble, so he's not getting wet. The knot comes loose in my hands and I bring him to my chest. The air inside the bubble is warm and I can feel his heart beating regularly, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Now I just have to get back to the surface.

I look around at Harry again, wondering why he's not taken Ron and returned to the surface yet. "Time's nearly up," I tell him, though he must know since the mer-song is coming from right next to us.

He looks amazed that I can speak, but recovers and points to Fleur's sister and does a gesture as if to wonder whether I had seen her or not.

"I haven't seen anyone except you," I tell him. "Are you going to wait?"

He shrugs, then nods. I shrug back, then turn, intending to head back for the surface and the shore. Peering upwards, I realize I have no idea which way the shore actually is. I look around and approach a merman with two young merchildren peeking from behind his tail. ~Which way do I go?~ I ask him in Mermish. He looks shocked and the two children retreat out of view as if scared, though I can hear them trilling excitedly to each other. The merman recovers himself and points mutely off over my left shoulder. He seems tacitly disapproving, and I wonder if merpeople actually like having outsiders speak their language. I thank him with a nod then strike off in the direction he had indicated, pushing off the ground to give myself some momentum and kicking after that. The village retreats below me, the last I can see of it the top of the statue's head. I wonder if Harry's going to stay down there till Fleur shows up, and if he'll be okay, but the stronger need to get Edgar to the surface wins out and I kick as hard as possible for the air.

The swim back seems to take less time than the swim down, but I'm being more careful than before in the case that Edgar's bubble shouldn't be jostled.

The sunlight becomes more distinct as I get near the surface, and I slow down to make sure I'm near enough to shore. I'm not quite, so I head over to the right, skimming below the surface because once I'm out of the water the potion film will stop working and I'm not confident enough a swimmer to do that in the middle of the lake. The bottom begins to slope up out of the murk before too long, and soon enough I'm able to put my feet down in the silty mud and properly walk up out of the lake. The sun is blinding when my head breaks the surface, and the air is blisteringly cold, colder than the water had been originally. My burn screams all over again and I try to gasp but can't because the film's still over my face. Stumbling, clawing at my face and trying to see whether Edgar is okay, Bagman's voice invades.

"…Linese emerges, looking somewhat the worse for wear, and quite a bit outside the time limit of one hour, and apparently without her hostage—my my, not looking like a good score for Miss Linese today, I must say…"

I peel off the film and gasp in air. Edgar is my first priority, naturally, and I lift the bag to my face to see if he's alright, or even awake. He is, to my vast relief, and blinking at me crankily through the mesh. He sniffs at me to say that my paws are cold.

I grin. "Sorry."

Hands are one my arms all of a sudden, pulling me roughly from the knee-deep water. "Tea! Tea and blankets and Pepperup Potion! Good Heavens, sending children into the Lake in the middle of February!" By the time I register it's Madam Pomfrey, I am already on shore with several blankets around my shoulders and a mug of steaming Potion in my hand. "Are they trying to kill you?"

"Yes," I answer straight-faced. She snorts impatiently. "Is Viktor back?"

"Mister Krum returned close to twenty minutes ago with his hostage. He's over there." She points over my shoulder and I crane around to see Viktor similarly swaddled with another Durmstrang boy next to him. He sees me looking and waves, and I wave back with my mug of Pepperup Potion. "Drink that, don't slosh it everywhere." Madam Pomfrey snaps. "Miss Delacour was unable to complete the task due to an attack by Grindylows." She nods back over her shoulder and I see Fleur crying by the edge of the Lake, restrained by Madam Maxime from plunging back into the water. "Drink your Potion," she repeats crabbily and I raise the mug and down the contents swiftly. Gouts of steam billow from my ears, which is uncomfortable, but a delicious bloom of heat forms in my stomach and spreads through the rest of my body. Madam Pomfrey grunts in satisfaction and bustles off, grumbling about student endangerment and chains of irresponsible decision-making authorities. After a minute, Viktor comes over, accompanied by the Durmstrang boy he'd been sitting with.

"…speak Bulgarian around her," he's saying as he comes up, in that language.

The other boy gives me a sceptical once over. "Why not?" he asks, also in Bulgarian.

"I've been teaching her. She's really good."

"I know you like her, Viktor, but she's just a girl, not a genius."

"Except I am, with languages at least," I say in Bulgarian, raising an eyebrow.

Watching him boggle is truly enjoyable, but Viktor steps in before it goes on too long. "Nita, this is my best friend Slavoj Minkov, I told you about him. They stuck him in the bottom of the lake for me."

"Nice to make your acquaintance." We shake hands, him still eying me warily.

"Slavoj and I came into Durmstrang together," Viktor explains. "We're the only two Bulgarians within three years of our class."

"Only two sane ones among all the Russians and Germans," Slavoj grumbles, punching Viktor's shoulder. I've noticed other boys randomly hit each other like that too, but I still don't understand it.

"Linese."

I turn around and find Snape behind me, never a pleasant experience. He has my cauldron suspended between thin, pallid fingers, still mostly full of the light brown sludge that had lain beneath the film. "Yes?"

He narrows his eyes at the lack of honorific. "Explain this."

"It's my cauldron."

"The potion inside," he snaps. "Where did you get it?"

"I made it."

"A likely story," he sneers.

I bristle. "It's true! I've been working on it all month. You can ask the apothecary in Hogsmeade: I bought all the ingredients myself."

His lips form the thinnest of smiles. "Brewing a potion outside of class, Linese? I trust you know such activities are strictly against the rules."

"Oh Severus, stop it." Professor McGonagall appears next to us and rescues me from the vindictive Potions Master. "Miss Linese performed an impressive feat of potioneering to prepare for this task, and I can tell you are impressed." Snape makes a strangled noise of protest. "And furthermore, I think it would be appropriate for you to write to the Wizarding Examinations Authority for this to be counted as her practical NEWT exam. They will surely trust your expert testimony, undersigned by myself and the Headmaster." Snape looks like a young child whose favourite toy has been confiscated—that toy being tormenting students, I suppose.

"Minerva, you can't expect—" he splutters, but she cuts him off.

"I do expect, Severus. In fact, I expect to see the letter on my desk tomorrow." She turns on her heel and sweeps off towards the judge's table. Snape gives me a sour look and I realize I'm smiling enormously. He scowls and thrusts my cauldron into my arms. Some brownish potion slops out over my sleeves. He brushes past me and stalks away along the edge of the lake. "Thanks for the help, sir!" I call too-cheerfully after him.

"Vot was that?" Viktor asks, reverting to English since Slavoj has drifted away to stand nearer to Fleur.

"I think a couple of professors had a power struggle over me. Good thing Professor McGonagall won. I might have had detention otherwise."

"That man vould punish you for broo-brewing—yes?—a potion vell?"

"Snape would punish me for breathing if he could. He hates Gryffindors, but he has special favourites he likes to abuse."

Suddenly, someone in the crowd shouts, "It's Potter!" Everyone turns excitedly.

"Speaking of Snape's special favourites," I murmur, turning as well. Three heads poke above the surface of the water, some distance out into the lake. Two of them are Harry and Ron Weasley, obviously but who is…? Had he…?

More and more heads join the first three in the air, but they don't seem to be human, and this is confirmed once they start singing in Mermish as they all move towards the shore. They swirl around the three humans, screeching about the success of the little humans and the rescue of precious things and bravery of a boy. As they grow closer, I confirm it's Harry and Ron, and that the third head is silver-blonde.

My intuition was correct: Harry saved Fleur's sister too.

Everyone in the stands are screaming and all the judges except Karkaroff get up and bustle around their table to the water's edge. Percy Weasley actually wades in to haul his brother out, who looks extremely embarrassed about the whole situation. Madam Pomfrey descends to repeat the process of Pepperup Potion and blankets on the three new arrivals. As soon as she's able, Fleur breaks free of her Headmistress' grip and flings herself upon her sister, wailing something and being very dramatic. She even goes so far as to plant kisses on Harry and Ron's cheeks. They both look shocked, but then give each other rather witless grins. Harry looks a bit like a drowned rat, and the other two aren't much better.

"Is he allowed to bring up with two?" Viktor asks, and I shrug.

"Harry does a lot of things he's not strictly allowed. Participating in the Tournament, for instance." Viktor grunts, unimpressed.

Professor Dumbledore is crouching at the edge of the water, croaking to a merwoman. They're too far away for me to hear properly, but I suspect she's relaying everything that happened at the bottom of the lake. As though to confirm this, Dumbledore turns around and gives me a startled look. He's probably hearing I spoke Mermish: I can't think of any other startling thing I've done today. Other than survive, I suppose.

Soon enough the merpeople retreat into the lake, singing as they go, and Professor Dumbledore calls the rest of the judges into a huddle to designate scores. This doesn't take very long, and soon enough Bagman's voice rings out, quieting the babbling stands.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our decision. Mer-chieftainess Murcus has told us exactly what happened at the bottom of the lake, and we have therefore decided to award marks out of fifty for each of the champions, as follows…

"Miss Fleur Delacour, though she demonstrated excellent use of the Bubble-Head Charm, was attacked by Grindylows as she approached her goal, and failed to retrieve her hostage. We award her twenty-five points." Applause for Fleur is sympathetic but not lengthy and the crowds quiet swiftly so that Bagman can continue.

"Mr Viktor Krum used an incomplete form of Transfiguration, which was nevertheless effective, and was the first to return with his hostage sixteen minutes outside of the one-hour limit. We award him forty points."

"Hey, not bad!" I call over the clapping.

"Not good either," he grumbles.

"Miss Nita Linese _apparently_ brewed a flawless cauldron of Submarine Rebreather Film Potion, spoke Mermish to find the village," Bagman looks deeply sceptical, "and returned second, over half an hour outside the time limit. We award her forty points as well."

"Vat!" Viktor sounds affronted through the noise of my—surprisingly enthusiastic—applause. "They only giff you forty for speaking on Mermish?"

"I was half an hour late," I remind him. "And I think Bagman has it out for me, honestly."

"It is not ze job ov ze judge to 'haff it out' for you," he says flatly.

"No disagreement here."

Bagman goes on to the final contestant. "Mr Harry Potter used Gillyweed to great effect." Gillyweed! Where had he gotten his hands on Gillyweed? "He returned last, and almost fifty minutes outside the time limit of an hour. However, the Mer-chieftainess informs us that Mr Potter was first to reach the hostages, and that the delay in his return was due to his determination to return all hostages to safety, not merely his own. Most of the judges feel that this shows moral fibre and merits full marks." Bagman gives Karkaroff a most sour look. "However… Mr Potter's score is forty-five points."

The cheering and clapping for Harry goes on very long indeed, but Bagman's magnified voice eventually overrides everything else.

"The third and final task will take place at dusk on the twenty-fourth of June. The champions will be notified of what is coming precisely one month beforehand. Thank you all for your support of the champions."

So Viktor and I are tied for second place. Of course we would have been tied for first if Harry hadn't… well. Second place is still good. I'll just have to work harder next time. I won't know how to do that until May, but…

I come back to myself when Viktor touches my arm. "Nheeta, they are all leaving."

I look around and see he's right: the stands are clearing out and Madam Pomfrey is waving to me to join herself, Harry, and Ron Weasley at the side of the path that leads back around the Lake to the castle. I start for them, aiming to grab my shoes and robe first, but Viktor hasn't let go of my arm. I look up at him, irrationally disconcerted.

"Nheeta," he says, and my heart speeds up. "I do not think—I mean I neffer—you…" He swears, and continues in Bulgarian, speaking rather fast. "If you had not been a champion, I think they would have put you in the bottom of the lake for me. The way I feel about you, I've never felt about anyone else before."

Something like vertigo, only pleasant, rushes through my head. My ears tingle and my hair feels like it's standing on end and my chest feels warm and full. I'm smiling again.

"I've dated a few girls, though not since I started professional Quidditch, but none of them were anything like you. I liked them, I didn't—I didn't love them."

My heart is beating so hard it feels it might pop. _Love?_ Viktor _loves_ me? But that's not… People don't…

Did that count as a _confession_? And people are supposed to say something back to a confession, either reciprocating or rejecting, but usually the truth. But what's my truth?

I take a deep breath and find it. Being with him makes me feel relaxed and happy and safe. I think he's attractive, and I like that he's gentle and sensitive. Even though I know I am afraid to trust people, even though I know I don't like getting attached, even though I'm not even sure I know how anymore. Even though all that…

"I love you too," I tell him. And he does his smile. And I do mine back.

**A/N**

**It might be tacky to say this since Nita's my OC, but I ADORE these two and sometimes it's uncomfortable to read fics that ship Viktor with someone else. xD **

**In other news, I got a really great review this week that asked, 'shouldn't the language in her thoughts be more complex and advanced, seeing as she should be really articulate in English because of her magical talent?' This is something I thought really hard about as I was figuring her talent and her character out, and I'm really glad I have an excuse to talk about it now! I made a distinction early on between what I call 'active' and 'passive' language, which are how I described language that you regularly use in speech and writing (active) versus language that you may understand but don't use very often (passive). Nita's store of 'passive' English is massive, and if she wanted to spend the time and effort to pick out the exact perfect word for any given situation, she'd be speaking in incredibly precise and articulate terms. But as I hope I've made clear, she's usually got more immediate things to focus on. There's also the issue of how she grew up: her mother was not well educated, and Nita didn't grow up reading or writing more than school required of her (I know that's not really stated anywhere, but hopefully it's believable in context). So while she probably learned to speak very well at a very early age, being articulate would not have been something she was positively reinforced for. So while the potential is definitely there, it's not something she prioritizes. Maybe it's something she could focus on when she gets to the Euro-Glyph School? Anyway, I hope this answered your question!  
**

**And just for the record, I've been just blown away by everyone's kindness in reviews on this fic. Every time I read one I get this big goofy grin. I care so much about this character and her story, and I'm so glad that you all do too. Thank you thank you thank you. ^^**

**Chapter 12, "Intimate", will go up next Tuesday!**

**All characters (except for mine) are owned by JK Rowling, Warner Bros, etc.**

**E.I. signing out**


	12. Intimate

_Chapter 12 – Intimate_

When I come downstairs to the Great Hall for breakfast the next morning and find Viktor already sitting at my usual spot at the top of Gryffindor Table, my stomach flops anxiously. We had gotten separated after the second task yesterday because Karkaroff was eager to get Viktor back to the Durmstrang ship and Madam Pomfrey was eager to get Potter and Weasley and me into the Hospital Wing. She'd made us stay through dinner, spooning hot, thick broth down us till I'd nearly forgotten how solid food looked. So Viktor's and my confessions of mutual affection (which still seem a little surreal in my mind) were nearly the last words we'd spoken to each other till now. How to start back up? Could one simply have a normal conversation again after saying 'love'? How are we supposed to act? Maybe I'll just let him figure that out. I sternly quell my flopping stomach and march the length of the Hall and sit across from him firmly. He startles a little, but then does his smile, and my stomach starts flopping all over again.

"Good morning," he says, and I remember it's a Bulgarian day.

"Morning," I say back, single-mindedly collecting toast and smearing jam over it so that I can avoid looking at him for a little longer. I like looking at him a great deal under normal circumstances, but my stomach is doing such queer things that I don't want to give it more reasons to rebel.

"How are you?" he asks, pouring me tea.

"Um?" My voice squeaks a little, and I scowl at myself. "That is, fine. Warmer than yesterday, certainly."

I hear him chuckle. "Yes indeed." I glance up at him through my fringe, and find he's smiling in that way he has, with his eyes alight and his lips only a little up at the corners and it makes me blush till I feel I might burst. "What do you have to do today?"

I have to wrest my mind back on topic before I can remember what my plans had been. "Do some homework, I suppose, and I should write to Bigby and Madam Malkin about how the second task went. For some reason they always want to know…"

"They're… friends of yours?" he asked, serving himself more bacon. "You've mentioned the one named Bigby before, but didn't say how you knew him."

"Sort of friends," I agreed cautiously. "But they're adults, old enough to be my parents. They're sort of like my aunt and uncle, or like godparents, I guess. I stay with—" Again with his tongue-loosening effect! I begin to berate myself for my carelessness, but then stop and think. People who tell each other _love_ also tell each other other stuff… Maybe I ought to spare some details about Bigby and Madam Malkin? "That is, I stay with Bigby during the summers."

"Are they friends of your parents or something?"

I hesitate. Pushing through my reluctance is an almost physical effort. "No… I met Bigby when I was… I guess I was just over twelve then. After my first year here at Hogwarts."

"How did you meet him?" He sounds only curious, not interrogative, but the deep old habit of reticence rears up and forcibly silences me. My mouth moves wordlessly and I'm nearly afraid to meet his eyes, but I force myself, and find him looking at me closely. He looks interested, careful, hopeful. I feel a tremor begin in the small of my back. My hands start sweating and my heart speeds up. Despite everything he has done to prove otherwise, I know deep within myself that if he finds out how neglected and scared I have been for so long… he would flee from the prospect of attaching himself to someone like that. He's too put together, with parents who supported and encouraged his talents, and friends, and a certain career in his future. In comparison, I'm fractured, I'm broken, I'm unworthy. My throat closes off against my attempted explanation of living in the alley behind Bigby's shop after first year and how he'd insisted in taking me in, and all I can do is shake my head. His expression becomes concerned and he nods reassuringly. "I said you didn't have to tell me," he says, and a weight seems to come off my chest. I reach for my teacup and gulp the lukewarm contents to hide my recovery. With a cool, rational mind, it's absurd that I'd react so strongly to such a question, but at the same rate, thinking very deeply about any part of my history almost immediately raises incredibly powerful emotions which I can't for the life of me control. His gentle acceptance is a better balm than anything I've yet found except simply not thinking about the past.

Viktor lets me take the moment I need, and then he broaches a new subject, a safe subject, and I relax completely. "They didn't give us any information about the last task, did they?"

I draw a deep breath and am finally calm again. "No, not that I heard. And our task was to retrieve a person, not a clue like with the dragon. My philosophy is that either they'll tell us something or they won't, and either way it'll be tremendously dangerous and we'll probably die."

He lets out a short, surprised laugh. "A little pessimistic, don't you think?"

I shrug, half-smiling. "Probably. But they let us go into the dragon task blind, didn't they?"

"Very true. Do you have any thoughts on preparing?"

For an instant I honestly think about it, but then I think that who we are outside of our relationship gives me a good opportunity to tease him a little, and I shoot him a quite direct look. "I know I'm still ahead of you, but that's no excuse to try and cheat."

He looks stunned. "I would never try to cheat!" he exclaims, clearly offended. "I'm a sportsman, a competitor, not a dirty rotten _cheating_—"

Realizing I've accidentally touched a nerve, I hasten to renege. "No, no, of course not, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I wasn't serious, I was trying to joke…. I'm so sorry, of course I don't think you'd…"

I watch him slowly deflate, my apology catching up with his anger. He sits thinking for a long moment, staring fixedly at the table and my anxiety mounts again. At last, he looks up and speaks directly to me, low and intense. "What I said before could have been construed as something someone would say to gain advantage from another person's work, it's true. But I would never do that. It's important to me that you know that and it's important that you know why. When I was young…." He stopped and seemed to reconsider his starting point. "I told you my parents were very encouraging of my talent for flying, and eventually Quidditch when I joined a local team. They fostered every aspect of the game in me, from the physical training and flying techniques to the proper attitude. When I was young, seven, eight at most, my father caught me cheating at a board game we played against each other. He was furious. He did not let me eat for two days. He only said 'we do not feed cheaters here' and told me to go to my room. Only after I fainted on the third day did he relent. This is not the last time he punished me for failing in my training, but it is the one I remember most clearly. I do not cheat, Nita. I do not steal. I do not lie. I want you to believe that."

"I do," I say quietly. "I swear I do. I didn't believe it even as I said it. I'm so sorry."

He nods, accepting my testament of trust, and I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. Realizing it's my turn to find an innocent conversation topic, I wrack my brains before offering the somewhat lame question, "How are you having classes when Karkaroff is the only teacher who came with you?" He spends the rest of breakfast explaining the process by which a large mirror on the ship acted as a sort of long-distance window into the Durmstrang castle so that the students in the Tournament could still "attend" their classes, albeit from a distance. Even though I'd asked as a distraction from our earlier conversation, but it turns out to be actually interesting.

Afterwards, I write my note to Bigby and Madam Malkin, and then start in on revision for Newts. I choose a disused classroom as a study space, and Viktor accompanies me, toting a book of his own. But he does very little reading as the day goes on, instead spending most of it watching me thoughtfully. Even though I'm usually very good at tuning everything out when I study, I find it remarkably distracting.

The days and weeks following take up a similar pattern. We eat our meals together if we're in the Great Hall at the same time, attend our various classes, and then work together for a couple of hours after supper till he's required to return to the Durmstrang ship. Weekends we spend studying, or sometimes taking wanders across the Hogwarts grounds. It's still very cold, and I often wear my dandelion cloak, which he never fails to compliment.

During those walks and conversations during meals, he often brings up his family. It was as though telling about his father's punishment for cheating had unlocked something inside him, and he couldn't stop talking about his parents and other people from his life back in Bulgaria. Not all the stories were bad, not even most. He had stories about playing Quidditch with his friends, and about his first years at Durmstrang. Stories about his childhood in Bulgaria, like the first time he did accidental magic. But bad ones sneak in too. He tells me about his godparents, whom he used to respect very much, but since he's become a professional Quidditch player, they do little but ask his parents for money. It sounds pretty foul, and I sympathize as much as I'm able.

But his stories make me very uncomfortable, as well as sympathetic. Even though he never even implies that I ought to reciprocate and tell him about my life, I feel in some way obligated, as though the honesty-scales are tipped too far in his direction and I have to even them out. I feel as though I'm lying every time I don't offer some detail about myself, or at least being desperately unfair. He's giving so much of himself, it seems, yet I'm stuck as a miser. This feeling grows and compounds inside me as I do nothing to release it and he keeps telling me things.

On a Friday in May, the 12th, I'm headed down to the Great Hall a little early because I'd fallen asleep before finishing my Charms essay and I need to get it done before class this morning. I'm settled at my usual spot at the top of the table and am perusing everything I managed to write the previous evening when Viktor takes the spot across from me with a splattering wet _plop_. I look up at him in surprise, and find that he's sopping wet from head to toe, from the furred cloak over his shoulders to his boots.

"What _happened_ to you?" I exclaim, earning sleepy glances from the few others who are up this early. "Did you fall in the lake?"

"They amb-b-bushed me as I was leaving the ship," he replies, shivering.

"Who did?" I ask, hurriedly pouring him tea. "The merpeople? Are they upset about the second task for some reason?"

"N-no," is his answer after a large gulp of steaming tea. "My friends. I told you about the tradition of throwing people in our lake on their birthdays, haven't I?" He shrugs. "They've brought that tradition here."

"That's unconscionable! That's absurd! The water must still be freezing! Don't they—" But then the slipped-in little tidbit arrests my attention. "It's your birthday?"

He flushes a dull red. "Yes. I'm nineteen today."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, simultaneously trying to understand his reserve and my own reaction to it. I can't tell what confuses me more: that he wouldn't want me to know his birthday, or that it offends me in some odd way.

He shrugs, avoiding my eyes. "My birthday doesn't seem like a big deal. It feels foolish to me to make a scene."

Empathy rises, and I think of how silly I feel when Madam Malkin and Bigby coddle me and send gifts on my own birthday. "I still would have liked to know," I say cautiously, not wanting to cross another boundary. "I don't like big productions made of me either, so I know how that feels."

He nods, I think in thanks. "It started to be hard to be excited for my birthday when my parents started getting me exclusively broom care kits or Quidditch gear," he says glumly.

It's my turn to nod, but it's because I don't know how to respond, and doing nothing would be awkward. But his candor and obvious melancholy breaks through the last of my resistance, and I surprise myself by saying, "Would you take a walk with me tomorrow? After breakfast?"

He blinks at me, surprised. We've gone on plenty of meandering walks together in the last few months, but we've never formally invited each other like this, or even made solid plans of them more than an hour or two in advance. But he nods and says "Certainly," with stoic brevity. I nod in return, and then I have to go to class.

I spend all day second-guessing myself. I'm unable to focus in Charms, even though Professor Flitwick is going over what's likely to be in the practical Newt exam. I'm distracted during lunch and stick my elbow in the pudding, which is marvelous and earns many giggles from surrounding students. Potions is devilish, of course. Snape seems to sniff out my preoccupation and pick on me for it, and I lose Gryffindor ten points because I just can't summon the wherewithal to focus on the topic. The Durmstrangers aren't at dinner, so I'm prevented (or saved?) from rescinding my invitation. Because despite the desperately strong internal barriers I've erected around my heart to keep it safe from assaults both old and new, I've decided to tell Viktor about Mum.

And I'm terrified.

What'll he do when he learns that I'm so unlovable even my own mother couldn't do it? I go straight to the dorm after dinner, which is unusual for me, but I'm too preoccupied to do anything else. Since it's a Friday, most people are down in the common room socializing and having fun, and will be till fairly late, so I go upstairs and climb into bed. Edger, sensing my mood, joins me and curls up at my throat, purring reassurances. I appreciate him for it, and even allow that the fact that he loves me means I'm not utterly unlovable, but I don't try to explain that it's a bit different with humans than with animals. The first instinct of an animal is to love others, whereas I think people come out distrustful. He snuffles sympathetically, and I subside into thoughtful, moody silence, petting him and listening to the distant noises of the common room. Eventually someone comes up the stairs and opens the door, and I shut my eyes hurriedly. If whoever it is thinks I'm asleep, they won't be able to harass me. Though at the same rate, they may think it's a perfect opportunity to prank me: those ten points Snape took off during class may still rankle.

I crack one eye slightly open, and then relax, seeing it's only Kay. She's unlikely to prank me, being a Prefect, and, it seems, a generally nice person. She's moving quietly around her bed, just next to mine, gathering her toothbrush and everything for the lav. She glances at me for a moment and seems surprised to find me looking back. "Nita? I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, I wasn't asleep. Just pretending in case you were someone I didn't want to talk to."

She smiles a little, tentatively. "Why are you in bed already? It's barely half nine. Do you not feel well? I could give you permission to go to Madam Pomfrey."

"No, I feel fine," I say, shaking my head. "I just… made a big decision today, and I want to rest."

Now she frowns, clearly concerned. "A good decision or a bad one?"

"I'll have to wait till tomorrow to see," I answer somewhat dourly, averting my gaze towards the canopy of my bed.

She doesn't respond again after that, just goes to the lav and shuts the door. I hear the sink and shower running, but I nod off sometime before she reemerges, thinking if only things had been different, we could have been good friends….

When I awake the next morning, I consider standing Viktor up. Just skipping breakfast and hiding in the dorm all day. I could play with Edgar and do homework and write back to Regina… But that would be cowardly. And if there's one thing I'm determined to never be, it's a coward. So I resolutely dress in my uniform and my nicest scruffy old jumper and my green cloak and march down through the waking castle to the Great Hall. I'm amongst the first there, beaten only by some industrious Hufflepuffs and a handful of professors. I take my seat and mix milk and sugar into my tea, though I usually drink it plain. I just need something to do with my hands. Anxiety swirls through my mind, clouding logical thought and reducing me to a sweaty mess.

Other students slowly trickle in, and I keep an eye glued on the door. Viktor comes in accompanied by a few other Durmstrangers, but he splits off as they head for Slytherin table and comes towards me instead. I feel my heart speed up and my throat aches with something like fear. Our eyes meet and my stomach clenches and then a small shrieking owl smashes into my face.

"Budge!" I shout indistinctly, trying to push him away, but he's already backed off, hooting and twittering with sheer giddy glee. He rarely gets to tackle me like this and he seemed to find it a special pleasure. Viktor has come close by the time Budgin settles down enough to actually give me the letter he bears, and I feed him some bacon and tell him to flock up before turning my attention to his erstwhile burden. It's just a letter from Bigby and Madam Malkin, but I will take any distraction from what I've set myself up to do today. Marigold writes of Alley gossip and that the Which Witch fashion show looks to be especially exciting this year. She wants to know all about Hogwarts and if I know anything about the next task and if she and Bigby are allowed to attend and how Viktor's doing. I don't know how she knows to ask about Viktor, but she has been every so often since the second task. Bigby's note is shorter, relating news about the shop and passing on regards from Tom and Mary at the pub. I sigh and fold it up, sliding it into a pocket and reluctantly turning my attention to Viktor, who is eating placidly across the table. He looks at me in turn and smiles, and my face suddenly feels like it's a hundred degrees. "Good morning," he says in English, and I bob my head, accepting the day's language. We've been speaking in English more often since he needs more practice in English than I need in Bulgarian, but I still try to have Bulgarian days regularly.

"Good morning," I mutter in reply. Dread is still twisting me up into knots, but I try to appear normal on the outside.

"Vhere vould you like to valking today?" he asks.

"Walk," I correct automatically. He's asked me to point out grammatical errors and it's become a second nature. "Like to walk, not walking."

He nods, accepting the amendment. "Vhere vould you like to valk today?"

I sigh again, my eyes skirting around looking at him directly. "I thought along the Forest could be nice. Not much wind and…. Yeah."

"Alright," he agrees easily. We eat quietly after that until we've both nearly cleaned our plates, and then I can put it off no longer. I stand, and he follows suit.

"Let's go then," I say brusquely, and head down the length of the Hall without looking to see if he follows. Of course he does.

We walk side-by-side out of the Entry Hall onto the grounds, and I set a drill sergeant's pace down the sloping grass to the distant Forest. He doesn't protest, merely follows and I think of slowing down or even stopping, but my head's done its thing where it disconnects from the rest of my body and I don't want to try and stop for fear of injury. Only once we are really and truly right next to—practically under—the trees do my mind and body reconnect and I bring myself to an abrupt, lurching halt. Viktor peers down at me, brow wrinkled with concern. "Are you feeling vell, Nheeta?"

I take the deepest breath I can manage—my burn scar hurts as my chest expands—and let it out in a noisy rush. "Sort of. Maybe. I don't know yet. Ummm, hooo. If you don't mind, I'm just going to talk for a bit here, and I might look like a crazy person, but I don't think I can really say all this in a straight line. Okay?"

He nods seriously.

"Okay. I… don't know what you've deduced about my situation with my family, but you know I stay with Bigby during summers. It's obvious I don't like talking about my mum, and I think it's obvious I don't like her very much at all anyway." My lip twists at the understatement. "Well, all of that is true, and more than true. I still don't… _want_ to talk about this, really, but you've done more than enough to prove yourself trustworthy and I do want to trust you because I think that would be good for me, and because you deserve it…. You've been amazing about all my… stuff and I can't think of a better way to say thank you, so here goes.

"I grew up alone with my mum. I never knew my dad: as far as I know he was some bloke Mum shacked up with for a night and never saw again, and she has always resented him for it. That resentment spread onto me over the years and I know for a fact that she never loved me as a mother should. When I was eleven, Professor McGonagall came to our flat and told me I was a witch and could come to Hogwarts to learn magic and everything, and I was so excited because it explained all the things I could do that no one else could that I thought made me so strange and freaky. Like talking to animals and learning French in a week and how I always made the bath water go cold so quickly. But Mum put her foot down and said that if I went to some mental school—that's what she called it—I couldn't ever go home again. So I went to Hogwarts and I never went home again."

I stop and swallow. I'm saying all this as quickly as I possibly can, using very few words, but that just means there's that much more emotion packed into everything, and I'm finding it difficult to control myself. I want Viktor to know all this because I think it will help him understand me a great deal, but I do wish that he could somehow understand without me having to say it all out loud.

"That's not what a parent ought to do, what anyone who loves you ought to do. I know she hated me, and that's fine because I hated her too! She barely ever paid attention to me and she drank so much all the time, and it was the best thing I ever did when I ran away. I don't care that I'm nearly homeless during the summer and don't eat enough, at least I'm not with her anymore! She's a drunk, she's a monster, she's… she…" I stop, panting, and realize I've been shouting. I was trying to work up to my burn, to telling him of my mother's most terrible crime. But even after saying so much, those words remain locked away deep inside me and nothing will bring them out. Not even the fact that he has said nothing this whole time, made no interruption at all. He just accepts. My decision to trust him wasn't unwise after all. Yet still, my final ugliness keeps itself hidden.

"So," I say, still breathing a little hard. I don't mean to make it a challenge, but that's how it comes out sounding. "That's where I'm from. I'm sure you see why I'm reluctant to talk about it."

He stands staring down at me for several long moments, and fear and anxiety begin to bristle into anger inside me. But then he speaks. "Vhenever you stop from speaking of this, you are seeming… guilty? Yes? Like how if you are hiding something you did that is bad. I am not seeing vhy."

"Well, I must've done something wrong, mustn't I? Otherwise why would she hate me?" The question is a child's plea: if I am bad, then everything else makes sense. And I would rather be bad than live in a nonsense world where parents could hate their children for no reason.

He frowns, and says carefully, "I am not thinking a parent is able to hate a child." I stiffen, furious at what I perceive as a rebuke, but he puts his hands up in a placating gesture. "I am thinking she vos very bad to you, yes. I am thinking you are right to be leaving, yes. I am thinking, perhaps, that she loved you, but does not know how to show so because she is in anger also."

"No, you weren't there! You don't know!" I protest, but he shakes his head also and I turn quiet in dismay. Shame builds within me: the words that would _make_ him know, would _make_ him see, would _make_ him understand refuse to come, even though I finally want to speak them, acknowledge them, bring their truth into the world. I cannot.

He goes on: "I told you of my parents en–encouraging me vith the Qvidditch and the flying. I told you of my father's punishment when I cheated on the game. I do not tell you of they hit me when I vould not learn fast enough to please them, and how vhen a nother Seeker got the Snitch in games, they vould tau–taunt me for days. But I know they do this because they love me and vant for me success. A parent must love their children. I trust this."

I feel a hole creak open inside my chest. Into it goes the hope and faith I had had that he would somehow recognize my experience at accept it with the grace he took everything else. But it seems he takes reticence more easily than painful truths. "I can't believe that," I whisper, drawing a half-step away.

"Nheeta—"

"No, I—it's just not true, alright? I wish I could explain, but… you're wrong."

He stares down at me, dark eyes inscrutable, and I feel suddenly claustrophobic. The trees loom close, the grassy slope leading back up to the castle seems to rise and hem us in, and Viktor is much, much too close. It's becoming hard to breathe and my burn pulls more painfully than before.

"I need—I'm sorry, I can't—" I stumble past him into the Forbidden Forest, ignoring his shouts of concern. I stagger through twilight till air comes easily again, and then I wander further till I find myself in the large open space where the first task happened, all those months ago. Before I'd even had a real conversation with Viktor, let alone tried (and failed) to get him to understand about Mum and my childhood. I scuff through the dusty earth and come upon a number of long slices carved into the soil, and I realize that it must be the exact spot the dragons were when we all faced them. It somehow strikes me as a bitter piece of irony that I would end up here, and before I quite understand what's happening, I'm squatting on my heels and crying pathetically.

It's far past curfew when I finally feel up to returning to the castle, and Professor Sprout, out late in the hallways for some reason, looks surprised as she gives me detention and tells me to go to bed.

It's far from the last one I receive. In the fortnight following my and Viktor's… conversation? disagreement? fight? I get eight detentions. Mostly for "having an attitude" in class. I'm not trying to misbehave: it's just that I can't seem to summon the requisite energy to pretend to respect people I loathe. Resultantly, Snape awards me five of the eight detentions. I can't even pretend to care. Ironically, all the detentions give me the best possible excuse for avoiding the rest of the student body. But somehow I can't quite be thankful. I resolutely do not think about Mum, or anything she ever did to me, or even Viktor, as much as I can manage.

I start skipping meals because that's where I'm most likely to run into Viktor. I grow hungry and gaunt, but it's no worse than those early summers, with their scant meals. The library is dangerous too, and I go back to using abandoned classrooms as my private studies. I walk around like a tightly clenched fist, my temper on a hair trigger. Once when Gideon calls to me in a mocking tone in the corridor between classes, I skip the niceties and go right for a Bat-Bogey Hex, and stoically accept the resultant detention from Jean Silk, our venerable Head Girl.

On the Friday marking two weeks since my decision to explain about Mum, I'm trailing behind the rest of the Charms students down to lunch. Professor Flitwick held me back after class to ask if I was quite alright, since I had seemed out of sorts recently (of course I told him I was fine, just under the weather), and as I get to the top of the great marble staircase, I spot Viktor emerging from the Great Hall. He sees me not an instant later, and calls out to me, "Nheeta!"

Without thinking, I turn and run. I hear him protest and follow, his feet loud on the stairs, and I redouble my efforts. But he, a trained athlete, gains on me. I duck around corners, but my feet are loud as well and he maintains pursuit. He calls again, "Nheeta, vait!" but it just spurs me on. Something too deep to name revolts against speaking with him. Finally, I catch sight of a tapestry I know hides a shortcut to the third floor, and I run for it and dart behind it as quickly as I possibly can. It's dusty and smells bad, as this isn't a shortcut that's used frequently, but I hold my nose and bear it. I hear Viktor round the corner at a run, but then slow to a stop as he sees the long corridor is empty. His steps falter forward, then back, and then he goes still. I can hear his breathing, slightly labored, though not as hard as mine. The dust is making my eyes water and my mouth feels fuzzy from breathing. "Nheeta?" he says, sounding tentative. Then he switches to Bulgarian. "Listen, please. I'm sorry. I know what I said wasn't right. I want to talk to you. Just talk. Can you hear me?" I don't move, don't speak, don't acknowledge the tears tracing silent paths down my cheeks. I hear him mutter "Dammit Viktor," and then his footsteps retreating back down the passageway.

I stay curled behind the tapestry for a long time. I'm not sure exactly how long, but it's long enough to decide that what I'm doing now—avoiding Viktor, getting practically a detention a day, slacking on homework, not answering letters—isn't sustainable. But I tried telling him and it didn't work, he thought I meant the same sort of thing as he had with his parents. How could I get him to understand? The question circled my mind like a tiger in a cage, prowling for exit. Nothing presents itself to me, and I eventually leave the safety of the little alcove, first making sure my face is dry. I hate how much crying I've been doing recently, but I can't seem to help it. I wander through the castle till I hear the big clock tower tolling and I realize classes are over and dinner's in full swing. I've missed Potions, but I don't waste time worrying about _that_. I decide to miss dinner, even though I hadn't had lunch either, and trudge on up to Gryffindor Tower instead. Edgar is concerned as soon as I climb into bed. He sees I've been losing weight and not sleeping well, and it bothers him, and he makes sure I know it. I pet him and whisper apologies and reassurances till he subsides. But sleep doesn't claim me. It's not the noise of the common room below, I'm beyond used to that. It's my stupid, indecisive, turbulent brain. I know I need to find a new way of getting Viktor to understand my situation, some way that'll actually sink in.

I roll over onto my back, sighing unhappily, and feel my burn tug in its accustomed response. It's almost unnoticeable for such a small movement, but this time it makes me freeze. Maybe I shouldn't tell him what happened.

Maybe I should show him.

The thought nearly curdles my blood. _Show him?_ Show him all my ugliness and wrath and shame? How can I? It's impossible. Yet I must. I knew as soon as I thought it. Even though it terrifies me. Perhaps _because_ it terrifies me.

I find I'm sweating, my back and armpits sticky. Yet almost as soon as I make this decision, sleep overwhelms me and I rest dreamlessly.

I awake feeling groggy and dim the next morning and quickly realise I've slept through breakfast, despite missing two meals the day before. Grumbling at myself, I get dressed carefully and jam everything I'll need into my bag and head down through the castle, intending to get some overdue homework out of the way before lunch, and then—hopefully, though my stomach twists at the thought—talk to Viktor.

The Great Hall is quiet, only a few Ravenclaws huddled over their own work, and I take my usual place at the top end of Gryffindor table. I can't tell if my stomach is cramping from hunger or anxiety, but either way I have a hard time focusing on my Transfiguration essay. In fact, a headache starts forming behind my eyes before very long, and I grow sort of dazed as the minutes trickle on. My forehead finds a way to rest in my palm and my shoulders sag down and the quill falls limp from my fingers. Yet still, I don't sleep. At long last, people begin to come in for lunch, and food appears on the platters. I'm nearly dizzy with hunger and it's nothing short of rapturous to eat again.

Once my stomach is full, my nerves return with a vengeance, but Durmstrang doesn't make an appearance at this meal, no matter how I wait and watch. Eventually everyone leaves and to return to their normal weekend activities, and I'm left with my Transfiguration essay again. I get marginally more work done during the afternoon, though I'm still preoccupied and fidgety.

But eventually the ceiling shows the sun sinking towards the western horizon and students and professors return to the Hall for dinner. I get some looks from people who notice I haven't moved since lunch, but ignore them. The Durmstrang delegation enters after a group of chattering second years. Viktor—my heart jumps—walks next to his friend Slavoj, looking dejected, and his gaze barely brushes over Gryffindor table as the group heads to Slytherin. Then he does a double-take that would have impressed an owl for the rotational ability of his neck and leaves Slavoj with a word, not taking his eyes off me for a second. He's probably scared I'll run away again. I want to, if I'm being honest. The thought of what I'm planning to do makes me feel ill and I would do nearly anything to avoid it. But I know this is the only way to get him to understand about me. I try to sit still till he comes abreast of me, looking nearly frantic. "Nita! Listen, I'm so sorry! I tried to catch you yesterday and apologize—"

"Yes, I know, but—"

"—but you vanished and I couldn't and I haven't seen you in days, _weeks_, and—"

"Yes, look, I know, but would you please sit down? You're drawing attention." He is. Most Gryffindors in earshot are looking at us with varying degrees of subtlety and several Hufflepuffs from the next table over are as well. Thankfully we've been speaking Bulgarian. People return to their conversations when they see us looking back though, and Viktor sits down across from me, leaning forward. He looks like he's going to speak again, but I forestall the attempt.

"I'm sorry I've been avoiding you." I say it immediately, straight out, before I can become shy. "That's not a good way to handle problems, and nor is it very mature. I had a lot to sort through, but I've done that now and I've decided something. Will you take a walk with me after this? Somewhere private?" I swallow down raging nerves, and instead meet his gaze. His thick brows are drawn down till they almost meet at the bridge of his nose, his mouth is tight and frowning.

"Are you going to—" It's his turn to struggle with the words, "—to break up with me?"

"No!" I exclaim, a little too loudly. Eyes fix on us again and are slower to leave this time. I lower my voice when I speak again: "Of course not. Not—that is—I mean—unless—do you want to? Break up?" The thought staggers me. In the nearly two weeks of turbulent anger and confusion and grief, ending things with Viktor—whatever they are—had never crossed my mind.

But he looks placated by my reaction. "I'm glad. And you're done running from me?"

I feel my face redden. "Yes," I mutter, embarrassed.

"Good. Where did you go yesterday? It's like you just vanished. Did you Apparate?" he asks, spooning buttery mashed potatoes onto my plate, then his own.

"No, it's not actually possible to Apparate inside the school grounds. I hid behind a tapestry, is all. There are hidden passages all over the castle, and that was one of them. I could still hear you and everything." Despite the fact that I'm embarrassed about that, the same feeling of safety as originally got me to tell him about Bigby fills me now, and it's not difficult to confess about yesterday.

He shakes his head. "I still like Hogwarts, but the more I find out about it, the stranger it seems."

"Try being here for seven years."

We eat quietly, and the camaraderie feels like a warm bath after frostbite. Painful, but welcome and necessary. I'm nearly calm as we get up and head for the Entry Hall, where I take his hand on something like instinct. I'm not sure where just I intend to go, but someplace other people aren't likely to come. We're just mounting the great marble staircase when a shouting voice pulls us up short: "Mr Krum! Linese! Mr Krum!" We turn and I see it's Bagman, who comes puffing out of the Great Hall after us. "Wait, just, there, please," he gasps, and leans over, hands braced on his knees. His days as a top-notch athlete are clearly far in the past.

"Yes? Vot is it?" Viktor asked. I'm momentarily jarred by his return to English, but of course he would have to to speak with Bagman.

The portly judge, having regained his breath, stands up straight and places his fists at his waist. He glances between us sharply, as though just noticing how we're halfway up the stairs together, and holding hands, and I could swear he mutters, "The apple never falls too far, it seems." I frown, but he carries on in a louder voice and I put the odd comment out of my head. "All the champions are required down at the Quidditch pitch in only a moment, to receive instruction about the third task." He sounds a little uptight and stuffy, but my ears prick up at mention of the third task. Finally, something to help us prepare…

Bagman continues: "So, Mr Krum, if you'd like to escort Miss Linese down to the stadium, I'm sure I'd be very grateful, as I still need to collect Mr Potter and Miss Delacour, so now if you don't mind I'll just… go… do that." He seems weirdly eager to get back into the Great Hall, but I see not great loss in his absence. To insinuate I'd be unable to find my own way to the Quidditch pitch, at my own school no less! Insolent little… I should have done more than Silence him during the first task. Maybe the next one will provide an opportunity.

"Shall ve then go?" Viktor asks, sticking to English. "Or are you vanting to go now and talk?"

"Do you want, not are you wanting," I correct automatically. "And no, that can… that can wait for the moment. After will be fine." And strangely, I'm telling the truth. Any anxiety I had before has gone away. There will be a reckoning very soon, but either way it goes, I'll know I did my best to get him to understand. If he leaves me for it, it won't be because I didn't try.

So we turn and walk together, hand-in-hand, down the lawn to the Quidditch pitch. The sun is about half an hour from setting, and bathes a beautiful golden light over the grounds and the Forest beyond. Hogwarts is beautiful, if you can ignore the vindictive professors and the snotty students and the dragons who want to roast you. And the handsome international Quidditch stars who make a muck of your emotions, those too. Once we get to the stands, we hang about waiting for Bagman and the other two champions, not saying anything, just being together.

It doesn't take them long to arrive, and Bagman has recovered his joviality and is aiming it all at Harry, who looks somewhat chagrined. I smirk sympathetically as we all follow Bagman through the stands and out onto the pitch itself.

I never made it a priority to go to Quidditch games after the thrilling knowledge of actual real-life flying broomsticks sank in, but even without Viktor and Harry's affronted reactions (Viktor stopping dead and staring around with a deeper than usual scowl, and Harry muttering "What the—!"), I know the pitch is in unusual shape. Mainly, that a network of low walls has sprung up all over it, up to about knee-height. The stands block some of the sunlight, and the pitch looks quite shadowy and creepy.

"Are these hedges?" Harry asks, having bent to examine one.

"Right you are, my boy," Bagman agrees enthusiastically. "And who'd like to hazard a guess what it is we're growing them into, eh?"

A beat of silence passes, and then I answer succinctly, "It's a maze."

Bagman shoots me a disagreeable look and I wonder again at this strange grudge. Surely he's had worse than a Silencing Charm put on him? But still, I do find it difficult to care. "Yes, well, after a fashion, yes, a maze, or labyrinth if you prefer, though if we're being technical a maze is what it…. Well, suffices to say that this is what the third task will consist of. Hagrid will have these twenty foot high by next month! Though don't you worry, my Quidditch playing friends, the poor pitch will be reverted to its former glory once the task is over!" He regains his aplomb as he speaks, even going so far as to bounce on the balls of his feet with his hands clasped behind his back like an overeager schoolboy. I work very, very hard not to roll my eyes.

"Now, the third task is really quite straightforward," he explains, and now I do actually pay attention. Odious though Bagman may be, this is important information. "The Triwizard Cup will be placed in the centre of the maze. The first champion to touch it will receive full marks."

"We seemply 'ave to get through the maze?" Fleur asks, voicing my own question exactly.

"No, no, there will be obstacles, of course," Bagman says, grinning. "Hagrid has supplied a number of creatures… then there will be spells that must be broken… all that sort of thing, you know. Now, the champions with the most points will get a head start into the maze—" He grins at Harry, ignoring me completely, "—then Mr Krum will enter, followed by Miss Delacour. But you'll all be in with a fighting chance depending on how well you get past the obstacles. Should be fun, eh?" We all nod, I somewhat skeptical, and Bagman claps his hands together and rubs them in a businesslike kind of way. "Very well then, if you lot don't have any questions, we'll, ah, go back up to the castle again, shall we? It's getting a bit chilly…"

We all turn away from the maze, and I quickly store everything we've just learned into a tightly wrapped parcel in my brain, as now I've got even more important matters to deal with.

Despite the interruption of Bagman and the maze, I remain determined to follow through on my plan. I take Viktor by the wrist and drag him up towards the castle. Bagman pulls Harry aside back near the pitch, probably to offer help again, and Fleur makes her way back to the Beauxbaton carriage, so Viktor and I are left alone.

"Vhere are you taking us?" he asks eventually.

"Somewhere private," I reply shortly, and he leaves it at that. Something in my gut insists I veer off from the path that would take us back indoors, and I lead us blindly around the side of the castle till I find a small courtyard on the west wall whose only entrance is a narrow archway facing the mountains. No windows look down into it, and benches ring the walls. It is entirely secluded, and exactly what I need.

His expression is puzzled when I turn to face him. "Vhat are ve doing here?" he asks.

"Do you really believe that parents love their children unconditionally? No matter what they do to them?" I speak in Bulgarian. It is essential he understand me perfectly.

He follows me into his native language: "I said so, and I don't lie."

I stare up at his earnest, scowly face, and nod. "I know you don't." Before he can say anything else, I grasp the bottom of my jumper and lift it over my head. I had gone bare beneath it, planning the scene with the utmost anxiety and care. I resist covering my small, malformed breasts as the wooly garment falls to the paving stones, determined to show him every inch of my ugliness, willing him to run away and prove my fear right. My burn becomes purplish in the cold, and the wind is plenty now. My skin smarts and prickles and aches at the onslaught and sheer effort of will keeps humiliating tears away.

At first his reaction is just as I had imagined. His dark eyes grow very wide and his fists clench at his sides. He is too stoic for anything else, too in control. But I know he sees it. "My mother did this to me when I was eight," I say fiercely. His eyes flicker up and meet mine. "And she did not do it because she wanted me to be good at Quidditch, or because it would improve me in anyway. I wanted an ice lolly and she wanted me to shut up. And now I have this."

He looks at me and his face is full of pain. And then without hesitating or saying a word, he leans down and kisses me softly on the lips. I realize how I am trembling with suppressed grief and fury, and that now he accepts that without understanding, and no one has ever given me a greater gift that his simple kiss.

But even so, I know he will ultimately reject me. He kissed my lips without really looked at my burn, but now he will look again and find it foul and revolting, and I will have lost my one chance of having something perfect.

My lips are cold after his leave, but he leans his forehead against mine and looks directly into my eyes. "I think you are very beautiful, Nheeta," he murmurs, the English a compliment to my vulnerability. I shake as I resist a sob. "Your mother vos awful to you with no reason. But hating her is not make it better." His voice is soft.

I make a choked noise in my throat as words struggle past the tears. "I don't want to make it better. I hate her and she deserves it."

"You are not affect her vith your hate. To not hate is… not meaning to forgive."

The emotions that have been strangling me for so long burst free, and I cling to Viktor and weep, even though the biting cold of the buckles on his jacket is worse than fire on my burn. He puts his arms around me and rests his chin on my head and I cry and cry.

**A/N**

**This one was rough, y'all. I'd have loved to just have them together and perfectly happy from the second task on, but it just wouldn't have been realistic. But at least now (almost) all of the big emotional hurdles are out of the way! **

**For the record, clearly Viktor has some figuring out to do about his own past and relationship with his parents, as they are obviously physically and emotionally abusive. But children react to parental abuse in all kinds of ways, sometimes by internalizing it and developing guilt and shame, like Nita, and sometimes by just failing to acknowledge it and buying into the abusers' rationale, like Viktor has. Both are sad situations, and I handled them as well as I know how. **

**The last chapter, "Debts", will go up next Tuesday (New Years Eve, yay!)!**

**All characters (except for mine) are owned by JK Rowling, Warner Bros, etc.**

**E.I. signing out**


	13. Debts

**You really want to read the Author's Note at the end, trust me.**

**And Happy New Year! :D**

_Chapter 13 – Debts_

With one thing and another, the following month seems to zoom by. Viktor and I are back to spending most of our spare time together, which is a vast relief for me, as avoiding him had become a sort of spiritual leech, draining my energy and strength. June 10th, my 18th birthday, falls on a Hogsmeade weekend, so Viktor takes me out to the Three Broomsticks and we get nicely sozzled. Bigby and Madam Malkin send presents, a handsome wristwatch and a big anthropological book of merpeople the world over and lots of colourful socks. Budgin got to carry the wristwatch from the Alley and spends all of breakfast twittering proudly at me.

NEWTs pass in a frenzy. I don't believe in revisions the way so many others do, but I give my notes a cursory glance the night before each subject's exam, and I don't think any of them go too horrendously. I'm exempt from the Potions practical, just as McGonagall promised, and spend that afternoon doing what I can for my Transfiguration skills, which is the only test I definitely do badly in. But I expected nothing better, and life goes on.

Aside from that, our time is mostly spent studying up for the third task. We look up spells we might have to face in the endless indices in the library, and their counters. Knowing Hagrid's reputation, I suggest we research obscure, hyper-dangerous magical creatures and how to combat them. My frustration about the careless attitude the Tournament organizers have taken about instructions and warnings rises again, since Bagman's vague "that sort of thing" is worse than useless for our preparations. But by the time the 24th rolls around, I'm feeling half decent about my chances. As long as I don't have to Transfigure anything, I should be alright.

The Great Hall is abuzz on the morning of the 24th when I stump downstairs to breakfast. I stayed up later than I meant to studying, and now I'm paying for it. Good thing the task isn't till the evening, I might be able to sneak a nap in…

Viktor is waiting for me at the top of Gryffindor table, looking stoic and more thoughtful than usual. "Morning," I say, thumping down and immediately pouring myself tea.

"Good morning," he grumbles back. "Your professor came and told me ve haff the morning vith our families today. In there." He pointed to the antechamber to the side of the teachers' table where we were told (or rather, not told) about the dragons when we were first selected as champions.

"Our families?" I repeat dumbly. "I haven't—I mean—that is… who would have come for me?" Not Mum, surely not her. I haven't told anyone except Viktor about her, and I trust him not to have told anyone else. But then I think again, and of course Professor McGonagall would know about her: she _met_ her. But how in the world would she have convinced Mum to come all the way up here to visit me? I'm finding it terrifically difficult to visualize.

Viktor answers my question: "Vell, at the fery least, you can meet my parents. I think they are will be here."

For once I'm too distracted to correct his grammar. "You want me to meet your parents?"

He frowns at me. "Of course I vant this. You are special for me. Ve are close."

I blush right to the roots of my hair and try to hide it by taking a large gulp of tea. The rest of breakfast passes in comfortable silence, even though I'm prickling with nerves. Meeting parents is a capital-r Relationship thing to do. Are Viktor and I in a capital-r Relationship? I'm not sure. I suppose we do Relationship things, like go to Hogsmeade together and tell each other personal things. Like about our parents. And we said 'love'. So I suppose we are. But I also mustn't assume. The old mnemonic about asses rises more terrifying than ever in this circumstance. Assuming a Relationship when he sees us only as… as companions or particularly good friends or kissing friends or something, that would be humiliating.

But suddenly there's no more time to worry as Viktor stands and invites me to do the same, and together we walk across the Hall towards the door to the antechamber, Fleur somewhat ahead of us and Harry bringing up the rear, looking as confused as I feel. Of course, I think, with no parents, who are the relatives he expects? Who does he live with over summers? I feel an unexpected rush of empathy. While I'm not technically an orphan as he so famously is, I think we're in similar situations.

But any thought of Harry and his family situation flies out of my head when Viktor opens the door to the antechamber, ushering me in before him, and I see who's in the room. In a knot by the fireplace stand Bigby, Madam Malkin, her assistant Rachael whom I'll be living with next year, Tom the barkeep, and Mary who once forged Mum's signature to get me into Hogsmeade. I feel my mouth fall open as they all turn and smile at me.

"See, I told you she didn't think we'd come," Mary said smugly.

I move towards them, dazed and trying to process how they could be there. I'm dimly aware of Viktor moving around me to other people in the room, and that there are a couple of other groups as well, but I'm just so completely baffled that I can't spare the mental energy to process them.

"No need to look so shocked," Bigby grumbles at me, arms crossed in the usual fashion. "We do live in the same dimension as you, even though Hogwarts seems like its own little world."

"Well sure—" I start. "But I mean— How did you— I'm just really confused." I stumble to the most honest halt I can manage.

"Professor McGonagall asked us to be here for you," Madam Malkin explains succinctly. "In the place of your biological family."

My throat catches quite abruptly and I battle back tears, because honestly, I can't keep crying like this or they might as well start calling me Nita "The Tap" Linese. "That's… that's awful nice," is all I can manage at the moment, but then Rachael and Mary intervene by suddenly turning all giggly at something behind me and sort of stage-whispering to me, "Nita, Viktor Krum wants your attention."

I turn and see him standing a short way behind me, flanked by two people who can only be his parents. He has his dark hair from both of them, and his father's nose, and his mother's tendency to slouch. It's a little eerie. Never having known my own father and not having seen my mother in nearly seven years, I had no parallel experience. "This is my father and mother, Kaloyan and Darina Krum." Having made this introduction in English, he switched to his own native tongue. "Maika, Tatko, this is Nita Linese, the girl I wrote to you about." Behind me, I hear Mary and Rachael practically choking with excitement. I do my best to block them out: this is important. I reach and shake hands first with his father, then his mother, saying, "It's very good to meet you," in Bulgarian to both of them.

"She has a good handshake," Mr Krum says to Viktor.

"And she speaks Bulgarian so clearly," Mrs Krum notes, though she looks at me.

I shrug, not quite sure if I'm expected to answer or not. "Only thanks to your son, ma'am." She smiles warmly at me and I congratulate myself.

"Nheeta," Viktor switches back to English, "are these your…?" He sweeps his arm to indicate my eclectic group.

"These are my guests, yes," I say hastily, avoiding that touchy word _family_. "I've told you some about Bi – Mr Bigby and Madam Mal, er, Mrs Bigby…" That does _not_ roll off the tongue. Viktor shakes hands with them both and I could swear Madam Malkin is actually fanning herself afterwards. "And then we have Mary Ford and Rachael Percival," They are definitely fanning themselves after shaking hands with him. "…and Tom the…" I come to a full stop, staring into Tom's wrinkled old face. "Tom, I don't know your surname!" I exclaim, halfway between dismay and accusation.

He looks bashful. "Well, I don't put it around much… Tom Deadman at your service." And he also shakes hands with Viktor. After that Viktor and I hopscotch between English and Bulgarian to introduce our families to each other and sooner than later there are about ten conversations going on and I'm trying to translate about seven of them. But it eventually gets decided—somehow—that we should all have a stroll over the grounds for a bit since it's such a nice day, and to my utter amazement, the morning flies by. Hardly anyone can talk to each other, and at certain points I feel my head might just roll away from the effort of switching between languages so fast. Mary and Rachael do shanghai me for a bit and ply me for information about Viktor, and I only give them a fraction of what they ask for, so they eventually give up, calling me a spoilsport. I find time to thank Bigby and Madam Malkin for the birthday presents, and show that I'm wearing the wristwatch and a pair of the socks. Mr and Mrs Krum want to know how fast I learned Bulgarian, so I spend a while explaining that. All in all it's a very pleasant day, but my jaw hurts from talking so much when we all sit down to supper. I'm released from conversational duties, which is a relief. Mary, a former Hufflepuff, and Rachael, a former Slytherin, are agreeing on exactly how strange it is to sit with Gryffindor, and Bigby is showing Mr and Mrs Krum all his tattoos, and Tom and Madam Malkin are discussing something or other to do with the enchanted ceiling. Viktor and I are left alone with our nerves.

The feast is particularly sumptuous tonight, but with no more conversations needing translating to distract me, my head's done its disconnecting act and I don't taste a single thing I put in my mouth. Viktor eats mechanically across the table, but it's impossible to tell if he's as nervous as I am. Since I can't focus on the food, I let my eyes and attention wander, and happen to notice that Bagman has joined the teacher's table. This is expected since he'll be judging this evening, but on the other side of Dumbledore from him is the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, of all people. Mary says he comes by the pub sometimes, but I've only ever seen his photo in the _Prophet_. I simply can't imagine what he's doing here.

But then Dumbledore stands up and my heart starts going a mile a minute as the rest of the Hall comes quiet. "Ladies and gentlemen, in five minutes' time, I will be asking you to make your way down to the Quidditch pitch for the third and last task of the Triwizard Tournament. Will the champions please follow Mr Bagman down to the stadium now."

My body moves without any prompting from my brain and I stand and start going towards the doors to the Entry Hall. Viktor stands also and walks parallel to me on the other side of the table. Ahead of us, Harry stands as well, and Fleur gets up from the Ravenclaw table. I feel almost as though I'm dreaming when I hear the Hall cheering, and see Bigby and Madam Malkin and Mary and Rachael and Tom clapping and waving to me. My arm waves back, and then I'm past them, going out of the castle, and then following Bagman and the other champions down the darkening grounds.

The Quidditch pitch has undergone a complete transformation since when we'd last seen it. The hedges, only knee-height before, now soar twenty feet into the air. There is only one slim opening that I can see, and it's evidently the entrance to the maze itself. My scalp prickles.

Then Viktor is beside me, his body warm even from inches away. "I vant you to know that eefen though I love you, I vill vin this challenge."

I look up at him and find him looking sideways down at me, nearly smirking. I grin back. "In your dreams, Krum."

A minute later, the rest of the school descends from the castle and starts finding seats in the stands, making a great deal of racket and noise. I screw up my courage one last time and touch Viktor's hand. He looks down at me, eyes questioning. "After this year, after graduation that is, I'm going to go talk to my mum one last time," I say, only just loud enough so he could hear. "I don't think I'll forgive her… but I want to stop being angry all the time." I peek up at him again and his eyes are shining now. Before I can say anything else, he leans in and kisses me, just quickly, a soft thing on my lips, but warm and welcome. There are some shocked gasps from the stands, which I ignore.

"This is good," he says, and I smile at the ground.

Just then Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Moody, and Hagrid enter the stadium and come over to us. They all have shining red stars attached to their hats, except Hagrid, who has it on the back of his moleskin waistcoat to make it the same height as the others. "We are going to be patrolling the outside of the maze," Professor McGonagall explains without preamble. "If you get into difficulties, and wish to be rescued, send red sparks into the air, and one of us will come and get you, do you understand?" We all nod, but inside I'm swearing I'll never send any red sparks up. I'm seeing this through to the very end.

"Off you go then," Bagman says cheerily to the four professors, and they head off in various directions to take their places. As she sweeps past me I think for a second that she gives me an encouraging nod. But she's Professor McGonagall, so I must be imagining things.

Suddenly Bagman's voice, magically amplified, rings out over the stands and startles me badly. If I never hear that man's voice again it will be too soon. "Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you of how the points currently stand! Tied in first place, on eighty-five points each—Mr Harry Potter and Miss Nita Linese, both of Hogwarts School!" He glares at me as he says this, though I can't for the life of me understand why. As the cheers and applause subside, he goes on, "In second place, on seventy-nine points—Mr Viktor Krum of Durmstrang Institute!" More cheers and clapping. "And in third place on sixty-three points—Miss Fleur Delacour of Beauxbatons Academy!"

A great deal of excitement from the stands now. Looking out at them, I notice Kay cheering with what looks like quite honest enthusiasm, wearing a big hat that says 'LINESE' in great shining letters, and that gives me something of a jolt. In fact now that I'm looking, I'm seeing my name a lot, even more than Harry's. It's extremely weird and I turn my attention elsewhere, and see Bigby and Madam Malkin and Tom and Rachael and Mary sitting in the first few rows, whistling and waving, and I give a somewhat confused wave back. Honestly, the sooner I get in the maze the happier I'll be. At least I'll know everything's intentions in there.

As though hearing my thoughts, Bagman cries, "So then, on my whistle, Harry and Linese! Three – two – one –" His whistle is shrill and short, and Harry and I enter the maze together. As soon as we cross past the first hedge, the noise from the crowd and Bagman's voice are completely silenced and my ears ring for a moment. We walk for about fifty feet together, and then there's a fork in the path.

"Well," says Harry, "good luck."

"Thanks," I reply, seeing my own nervousness mirrored in his face. "You too." He goes right and I go left and soon I am alone, hurrying between the towering bushes. Since I'd gone lef at the first turning, I would want to turn right as soon as possible to start working my way towards the centre of the maze. The combination of growing up at Hogwarts and the Alley means I have a brilliant sense of direction, so I know which way to go almost without thinking about it.

Around the next corner I encounter the first obstacle: it looks innocuous enough, only a gently glowing golden mist that fills the space between the hedges and continues for a step or two, though its width is strangely difficult to judge. "_Intentium Revelomal,"_ I murmur, waving my wand in a subtle elliptical pattern. Nothing smells of grapefruit, so it's not going to harm me, but I'm still nervous as I sidle forward and slide first a foot, then a hand, into the mist. When there is no sensation whatsoever, I push the rest of my body in as well. Instantly, the world spins upside down, the ground is the sky, and my flight-or-fight instinct is in high dudgeon.

Once my heart has quieted enough that I can hear myself think, I summon reason and logic and work through it carefully. This spell has only changed my perception of the world around me, not the actual environment. For one thing, there is no sensation of my head filling with blood, even though I've been hanging upside down for at least a minute. Therefore, if I ignore the evidence of my senses and move forward regardless, I should escape the mist quite as easily as I entered it. Taking a deep breath, I lift one foot and place it in front of me, out of the mist, and at once the world spins around again and starts behaving as it should. Even though I'd been next to sure that's what would happen, I still sigh with relief before hurrying on. Two turns later, I hit an intersection with four other paths branching off and am trying to decide between the two most likely candidates when I suddenly hear a voice whisper "_Nearly there."_ I spin about on the spot, trying to see who had spoken, and see a little dancing light halfway down another of the paths. It seemed to be waving for me, and I take a few curious steps after it. Something in the back of my mind stirs uneasily, but I quell it. Obviously the dancing light knows exactly where it's going, and wants to help me.

But, "_No, this way,"_ another voice says, even sweeter and more convincing than the last, and I turn and see a second light dancing down another path. I peer back at the first, but it has vanished. I frown and follow the new one a few paces, intending to ask if it was the same light as before that had just changed its mind or another one altogether, but then there's another voice asking "_Why not this way?"_ I turn, frowning. Yet another light dances down another path—was it the one I just came from? More whispers, "_Come this way!" "You're so close!" "Just a little further!" "It's right around the corner!" _Many lights dance now, spinning and dancing, and I turn also, trying to find a way out from them, scared now, and they draw closer in, whispering still and darting in at my face. Panic is sudden and sharp and I grab for my wand and bellow, "_Finite incantatem!"_

Silence. I open one eye at a time, and the dancing lights have gone, and the night is still and cool once again. I'm breathing a bit hard, and take a moment to calm down, but once I do I'm petrified to discover that I have absolutely no idea which way to go. All the turning and spinning after the dancing lights has got me completely turned around. The strong sense of direction I had planned on relying on so heavily is now worth exactly nothing. The paths are identical in the darkening twilight, and the stars might as well be randomly spread across the sky for all the help they give me. I can barely see any of them to begin with since the hedges are so close together. Peering about surreptitiously, I sidle over towards one of the hedges and poke it with my wand, just checking. It's a version of a charm Professor Sprout showed us last year to get vines to grow on trellises better. In this case, I'm having it shape one of the thick stems into a rough ladder. Slowly, it obliges, and I tuck my wand behind my ear and clamber up into the hedge. It's dark and smells like dirt, and the ladder gets less and less sturdy as I get near the top. I lift my head cautiously into the air over the top of the hedge and look around, trying to reorient myself. I've just spied what looks like the centre of the maze way far off to the left when the hedge I'm in gives a violent shake. My makeshift ladder shudders and starts to reform in my hands. My feet slip and I go tumbling down the better part of fifteen feet and land with a jarring _THUD_ on my back on the grass. I sit up, groaning and rubbing my bum. I should have figured the hedges would be spelled to avoid people tampering with them like that. At least I got the information I needed. My mental compass is back in action, drawing me into the middle of the Quidditch pitch-maze. Following this instinct, I head off into the path I think most likely, still rubbing my bum and glad this task isn't as much of a public spectacle as the dragon had been.

A few turns later, I'm making good progress when I abruptly make a right turn and nearly trip over some enormous terrifying scorpion-looking monster. No one but Hagrid could have come up with something like this, and no one but the Tournament organizers would have thought letting one into the maze was a good idea. What was it called again? A Skrowt? Some fifth years in Care of Magical Creatures had been talking about them at dinner last term. Regardless, I have no interest in tangling with this thing at the moment, and I hastily backtrack around the corner and hasten off in the other direction.

The sky is really truly black by now, and I suddenly wonder how the rest of the champions are doing. I still can't hear anything from the stands. What could Bagman be saying to them? The audience must be dreadfully bored. Back in the beginning I'd heard the whistles allowing the others into the maze, but there had been no indication of anything since then. No one had sent up the red sparks for rescue, at least not that I had seen. But as though conjured by my thoughts, a shrill scream rings out from somewhere, and red sparks shoot up into the sky a moment later. The scream could only have been Fleur, and the sparks mean she's left the maze, and thus the whole Tournament… I shiver and continue on.

My thoughts have gone to Viktor as though magnetized, wondering how he's doing and hoping he's alright, when I turn the next corner and am suddenly the sole focus of the attention of a humungous swarm of Cornish Pixies. I can't see through to the pathway beyond, there are so many of them. They all giggle and shriek at the sight of me, and, as one, dive towards me. I feel their tiny hands grabbing at my hair, my robes, my ears, and slowly lifting me into the air. For an instant I panic, but then their high-pitched squeaking penetrates my brain and I realize there's sense to it. `Grab her!` they squeak. `Get her!` `Take her!` `Bring her!` `Fly and fly and fly!` I grin even as my feet leave the earth. They slowly rise above the level of the hedges and the maze spreads out before me like another layer of lawn with dark canals snaking around on it. `That way! That way!` I squeak at them, pointing towards the middle of the maze. There is a moment of utter silence from the Pixies, and then they quietly squeak to each other, `It talks?` `Talking talk?` `Of us?` `Leads us?` `Fly and fly and fly for it?` The squeaking becomes enthusiastic and affirmative. `Fly and fly and fly for it!` `Leads us!` `It talks!` I grin. In the background I can dimly hear Bagman shouting, "The pixies seem to be lifting Miss—is she _DIRECTING THEM__!?"_ He sounds absolutely outraged. The audience is screaming, though with what emotion, I can't tell, and I can't turn my head to investigate since the Pixies have my ears.

Unfortunately the Pixies get bored well short of the middle of the maze and they set me down between some hedges again and fly away, shrieking and squeaking goodbyes. I wave after them, rubbing each ear in turn. At least that helped me gain some distance, and from the looks of things I've come quite close to the centre and the Cup. I hadn't seen any of the other champions in my jaunt over the top of things, and I'm not sure what's in front of me to face, but I think I've had a moderately good run so far. Feeling reasonably cheery about my chances, I get a bad dose of déjà vu as I round the next corner and nearly collide with another one of Hagrid's Skrowt—Skroop—Screwt—bloody _monsters_. I swear wildly in four langauges, backing away as fast as I can. But it's in the only direction that goes towards the Cup, so I have to get past it somehow. I crouch back against the far hedge, sizing up my opponent. It has a hard exoskeleton like a lobster, or like a scorpion as I noticed before. It's got a tail like a scorpion too, but not a stinger. I quit Care of Magical Creatures two years ago, so I've never encountered one of these things before, and if there's a tried and true way of dealing with it, I never learned it.

So the only thing to do is Stun it as much as humanly possible. "_Diffindo!"_ The crackle of spell-fire ricochets off the thing's hard shell, and I duck only just in time to avoid being hit by my own curse. '_O.K… I clearly need a better plan of attack…'_ I think as I slowly get back to my feet. The Screwt and I size each other up silently for a moment. It's obvious that that thick shell is going to protect it from all but the most powerful spells, and I feel like I shouldn't wear myself out since I might need that power to deal with whatever's coming next. So what I need to do is scare it.

But scare a ten-foot long, armor-plated, spell-immune, bed-wettingly huge arachnid? _How?_

Well, most things are afraid of fire, aren't they? I back up a step or two until I'm nearly around the corner again and aim my wand just in front of the Screwt's face. "_Incendio!"_ A blazing twist of flame shoots out of my wand and sets the ground in front of the Screwt ablaze. Instead of scurrying away as any self-respecting animal with instincts would do, it instead screeches and practically dives into the fire, making a deeply disquieting, sort of chitinous rattling, chuckling noise.

Right, so, on to Plan B. If it likes fire so much, let's see how it feels about water.

"_Aguamenti!"_ A spout of water fountains forth, dousing the Screwt and its fiery bed. Its chuckling changes to an enraged scream that shakes me right down to the bones, and it rears up on its hind legs, flailing under the aquatic onslaught. Seeing that its underside is much less thickly armored, I cancel the water spell and shout again, "_Diffindo!"_ aiming straight at its belly. Just as I'd hoped, the Screwt spasms once and rolls over on its side, curling up like a dead pillbug. I take a second to breathe, and then inch past it, wand up the whole time. I don't calm down properly till I'm around the next corner and out of sight, but once I am I allow myself a little smugness. Quick thinking and quicker action, what's what'll win this Tournament. And I must be getting very close to the middle of the maze by now.

Made thus confident, I make it around two more corners, when I am confronted by what look like four weird, hairy poles stuck into the ground in front of me at odd angles. My eyes follow them up and my stomach drops a mile. Of all things, why should a spider be allowed to grow a thousand times its natural size? Why, why, why?

I must gasp or make some other accidental noise, because the spider twists till all of its eight glittering eyes are staring straight down at me. Shit. This is really not what I was hoping for.

Its mandibles click and a couple of the legs move so that the horrible, huge body can lower towards me. I react almost without thinking. "_Diffindo! Impedimenta!"_

The creature recoils like a human that's been stung by a bee, but only bears down with more fury for it afterwards. Perhaps not the best opening shot on my part. I back up slowly, repeatedly firing Stunners, but they barely slow its progress towards me. But one of my spells flies wide and collides with one of the spider's knees instead and that leg wavers and staggers for a second, and that gives me an idea. Joints are always weak spots: target those rather than its well-insulated thorax. Taking careful aim, I fire a Severing Hex at its nearest leg, just at the top joint. The spell connects with a crack I feel up through my feet, and the spider makes a ghastly high-pitched wail as the main part of one of its front legs falls away. The spider lists wildly, but corrects itself, the loss of one leg apparently no big deal with seven others remaining. I grimace and aim again. A second leg falls from the same side as the first, and now the spider wobbles precariously and staggers once – twice – and goes careening off to the left, looking almost drunk in the dim light. It's so huge that it can get up and over the hedges even without a quarter of its legs, and I salute its departure with no ill will at all.

I take a second to catch my breath, and then continue down the path the spider had been blocking, stepping over its lost legs like they're radioactive. I do not need one twitching in its death-throes and impaling me. I'm extremely leery of the next couple of turnings, and round them only with my wand out and a spell ready to cast. But the next obstacle is actually non-violent: she's a Sphinx.

"You do riddles then?" I say, as there's nothing else she could be here to do.

She looks a bit miffed by the abrupt tone, but the winning or losing of the Tournament may rely on speed here. "Indeed. Answer correctly my question and pass me by. Answer wrongly, however, and die."

"Okay."

She blinks. Then she mutters something about not being appreciated for her skillset anymore, and recites to me a poem, the last line being, "Which creature would you be unwilling to kiss?"

My face warms at the mention of kisses, Viktor's brief brush against my lips at the front of the maze coming alive again. But I force myself to focus. Kisses are great, but I said I would win. "Well," I say, scratching my head and likely making my hair stick up, "I just crossed paths with the most enormous spider you've ever seen, I definitely wouldn't want to kiss that thing..." Is it my imagination, or does she sit up a bit straighter at that? "But someone who deals in lies, that's got to be a politician or something, and a sound I make when I can't think of a word… 'Uh', that would be, I suppose. String them together and get 'politician-uh'..." I stare at the Sphinx for a minute, nonplussed. "That's not it. I guess I'll just say spider."

Looking severely put out, the Sphinx says, "You're supposed to deduce it."

"Am I wrong though?" I say, emboldened by her response.

"No," she complains. "Good luck. You're not far now." She steps aside and I rush past, gasping out a thank you.

Brimming with renewed confidence, and eager to get through the rest of the maze—and there's not much left, she said—I hurry on, and make it three turns when a horrible cloying cold smites my chest, doubles me over with its unexpected force. Through the pain and shock and fear, my mind manages only one incredulous thought: '_Dementor?' _My eyes are watering and my heart is pounding fit to burst, but I manage to look up, and there it is, its dark cloak trailing over the earth, its rattling breath filling my ears. The pain in my chest expands and changes, becomes burning, searing, worse than any fire, worse than any pain imaginable.

But through the memory of pain, I realize that I am the only person here. No one can help me, no one can dispel the apparition even now bearing down on me. I have to do it. I never mastered the Patronus Charm when I tried last year, but I have to try now. And I have to succeed. There is no alternative. Screwing up every last bit of my nerve, I grip my wand and aim it towards the Dementor. My voice is a horse whisper: "_Expecto patronum."_ A thick white mist ejects from my wand and swirls menacingly, if that's something mist can do, towards the Dementor. The creature doesn't seem unduly concerned, though it does hesitate. But the bigger effect of the mist is that it clears my head almost completely. The pain is gone, the cold is gone, I can breathe, I can see, and most of all, I can think. '_Come on, Nita, a happy memory, that's what you need! What makes you happiest?'_ The question doesn't need asking. I stand tall as the mist dissipates and the Dementor's cold strikes me once more, but it doesn't defeat me this time. The memory of joy seems to glow inside me, and I'm confident as I raise my wand again.

"_E__xpecto patronum!"_ I cry, and a shape erupts from the tip of my wand and races towards the Dementor. It's four-legged, with a bushy tail and a pointed face, but it's moving too quickly for me to be sure what it is. The Dementor falls away before it, flees from the manifestation of my happiness, and pride explodes inside me. The Dementor flees from the shining white creature, the clinging cold abates and then vanishes entirely as the monster disappears over top of a hedge. My Patronus returns to me, trotting through the air and I see it's a fox with a great fluffy tail and wise sharp eyes and a lame front leg. But even limping and unbalanced, it was still more than strong enough to drive away a Dementor. It circles me a couple of times, washing me with the pride and joy that produced it before slowly dissolving into the air.

It's very dark after it disappears and I murmur a quick _lumos_, though really I wish my Patronus would just stick around to light the way and protect me. I hurry forward, more confident than ever that I must be getting near the Cup. All the most difficult obstacles have to be clustered near the centre or the maze, it just makes sense. I reach a meeting of three paths and take the left, but a shout pulls me up short: "Nheeta!" I look and see Viktor coming up the third path. He looks a little worse for wear: one sleeve of his robes is singed and he has a ripening black eye. But I'm still thrilled to see him.

"Viktor!" I turn and hurry over towards him, eager to tell him all about the Dementor and my Patronus and the memory I used to create it. "I did a Patronus! Do you know about those? I did one! For the first time! Because of you!"

He does his smile, happy for me, but still looks clueless. "Vot is a—" Then his face goes sort of empty, and his posture goes slack, and he slowly raises his wand at me. I see his arm is trembling violently and that he is expressionless and suddenly I am unsure.

"Viktor?" I ask uncertainly, stepping away. His hand is shaking so badly his wand is nearly a blur, but it is still pointed right at me.

His voice, when he speaks, is dull and empty. "_Crucio."_

Pain such as I have never known floods my body. It is pain worse than fire or freezing water, worse than hot oil and a lifetime of pinching, pulling skin. My every nerve shrieks, my bones want to crack because anything is better than this, _anything_. I can't see through the stars bursting behind my eyes, I think I am blind, I hope I am blind, I hope I am dying. Because Viktor. Who loves me. Does this. I think I am screaming. My body contorts unnaturally, trying to twist away and escape, like the ants we used to fry with magnifying glasses at my old Muggle school. I wish my mind would detach and let my body suffer alone, I wish the crushing pain would leave me to die, I wish—

The pain is gone. After several short eternities, the pain is gone.

It is the most I can do to lie there and breathe for a while, but soon—very soon, too soon—the pain is like a dream, a horrible horrible nightmare and I gingerly lift my head to see what happened. Harry stands nearby, panting lightly with his wand clutched tight. In the other direction, Viktor lies sprawled, unconscious.

"I Stunned him," Harry says breathlessly. "Can you stand?"

I try, and slowly manage it. None of my limbs seem to quite fit anymore, like someone took me apart and put me back together just slightly wrong. I feel hollow.

"What happened?" Harry asked, keen concern in his green eyes. "Was that really the Cruciatus he was using? Are you alright?"

"I'm… alright," I agree slowly, starting down at Viktor, confusion and grief and betrayal churning in my gut. "It was the, the Cruciatus, yes. It was…" I grapple with the experience, and it dwarfs all words I can think of to describe it. "…bad."

Harry bobs his head awkwardly, peering at me. "So… d'you reckon we should put up the red sparks for him or something?"

I wrench my gaze away from Viktor and slam my expression shut. "Yeah," I say. "Yeah, we should." I realize at that time that my wand isn't in my hand anymore, so after Harry shoots the red sparks into the sky he obligingly aims his lit wand over the ground so I can find mine. It had rolled most of the way under a hedge, and I don't feel much more secure than I had before when it is back in my hand. Attacks could come from anywhere, I know now, and it is impossible to guard against most of them.

"So, erm…" Harry say, shuffling sort of awkwardly. I suddenly remember where we are: the task isn't over, the Cup isn't won. And Harry and I, if Fleur's scream earlier indicated what I think it did, are the last two competitors. I should be thinking of him as my rival, my enemy. Yet I just can't summon the energy to care. Thinking of my playful promise to Viktor that I would win causes something like vertigo. I don't even want the Cup anymore, I just want to get out of here.

"The centre of the maze is this way," I tell Harry, pointing down the right-hand fork. "There's only one path, so we might as well go together."

"…Okay…" he says, looking at me strangely. I can understand why. Early on I'd told him I'd do anything to win. Offering a partnership now seemed to contradict that. But I didn't care. I really just don't care.

We set off along the path together, going quietly and as quickly as I can. As my nerves settle back down I get quick aftershocks of pain and I sometimes have to stop moving until they pass. I try to stay quiet, but at one point I think I must grunt or whine without knowing it because moments later there's a horrible crashing from nearby on our right and all of a sudden the enormous spider I'd maimed earlier comes careening over the hedge twenty of feet ahead of us, legs flailing, its whole body wobbling crazily.

"Duck!" I yell, grabbing Harry by the scruff and nearly throwing him towards the foot of the hedge on our left. "Under, go under, go under!"

"There's no room!" he shouts with his head and most of his shoulders underneath already, evidently stuck.

"For the love of—" I whirl around, ignoring all the various protests of my body, and scream "_Impedimenta!" _at the drunkenly advancing oversized arachnid. The bolt of magic sends it toppling backwards, legs waving madly, obviously trying to get up but incapacitated for the moment, so I turn back to the hedge and growl, "_Bombarda."_ There's a snarling, ripping noise and a hole appears in the hedge from about knee height to waist height, and I grab Harry again and scramble through, dragging him behind. He grunts as he lands beside me, limbs akimbo and I shush him before hurriedly repairing the hole in the greenery, though it almost looked like tendrils were starting to weave themselves back together anyway. I wonder yet again what kind of magic Hagrid and Sprout put on these plants.

"Where's the spi—?" Harry starts to ask, but I hush him again, listening for the subject of his question on the other side. From what I hear, I'm pretty sure it's getting back to its feet and sort of stumbling about knocking into the hedges on either side. I think I hear its mandibles clicking and hold my breath for the long moments till it finally passes out of earshot. Then I finally breathe again and turn around.

And there's the Cup. Somehow in all the mad scrambling and running away, we'd ended up exactly where we wanted to go. Harry stands halfway between me and the pedestal supporting the Cup, looking like he's caught between a rock and a hard place. But seeing me looking at him, he seems to make a decision.

"Go on then, take it," he says, standing aside to give me a clear view of our prize. I feel nothing but apathy. Nothing about the Tournament matters anymore, not the fame, not the fortune, certainly not showing my classmates I'm better than they think I am.

No. "You saved me back there," I say, firmly not thinking of Viktor's strange blank face, his trembling wand, a curse beyond forgiveness… I shake my head. "I wouldn't have made it here if not for you. You should take it."

"I wasn't even supposed to be in the Tournament," Harry retorts. "You're the legitimate champion. You should win. And you saved me too, so we're even there."

I shake my head again, but doubtfully. "Can we both claim it? Touch it at the same time, maybe?"

He frowns. "I don't know. We could try, I suppose."

"On three then."

We pace to the Cup together and I count. On 'three' we both take hold of a handle.

I feel an awful tug behind my navel as my finger touches the metal, and I am jerked left and right and up and down and backwards all at once. Space is twisting, there is colour and noise and I can't breathe…

We land with a bump that rattles all my bones, and I lay for a long moment with my face pressed into a tuft of scratchy turf. I hear Harry nearby, moaning something about his leg. I sit up and start catching my breath. "What the hell _is_ that thing?" I demand, pointing to the Cup, which has rolled a few steps away.

"Portkey," he replies, looking around with all the confusion I feel. "Do you have any idea where we are?"

I look around too and state the obvious. "A graveyard somewhere." To tell the truth though, my flippancy masks deep unease. The cemetery is eerie and overgrown, the little church and yew tree a small distance off creepy rather than picturesque in the gloom. I get to my feet and help Harry regain his. "Do you reckon this is part of the task?" I wonder, hating how shaky my voice sounds.

"Dunno," he replies.

"Would it take us back if we touched it again?"

"Dunno," he says again. "I don't really know how they work." That makes two of us. A beat of silence, but then he whispers, "Someone's coming!"

"Wands," I hiss back, and they are in our hands faster than an eye blink. We both watch the figure draw closer. It is a fairly short person wearing a dark cloak with a hood that covers its face, but I can tell from the way he moves both that it is male and that he is holding something tenderly, like a baby. Always assuming people really do take care of their children. Neither Harry nor I would be aficionados in that area. I glance sideways at my companion to see him likewise looking at me, each of us confused, and we simultaneously turn back to face the man. He stops next to a particularly imposing gravestone merely two meters from us, and the three of us stare at each other for a second, before Harry suddenly gasps in pain and slaps a hand over his forehead. "Harry!" I shout. The figure by the gravestone is saying something in a horrible, high-pitched voice, and I look up just barely in time to wildly dodge a bolt of green spellfire. "Harry, the Portkey!" I grab him by the shoulder and he comes unresisting, moaning wordlessly. Another burst of green shatters an urn scarce inches from my head and I duck frantically and grab for the Portkey, making sure Harry's arm is secure in my other hand and hoping that will be enough to bring him with me, _praying_ the thing will work twice. _"No!"_ shrieks the high pitched voice. _"NO!" _But we're gone, twisting and tearing through space, that inside out feeling no better than before, but then there's light and noise, people cheering and I hear Harry gasp in relief—

"Harry Potter has—no, not Linese! Damn!—that is, they have returned together somehow." Bagman. "Ties aren't allowed, are they? Ties can't be allowed." He sounds weirdly frantic, but my heart is still racing from what can only have been attempts on my and Harry's lives. Them—whoever _they_ were—going after Harry certainly makes more sense, he's the famous one and everything, but those Killer Curses certainly looked like they were aimed at me.

People are descending on us from all sides, McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey and Moody, only he looks furious for some reason, he looks out for blood, but why would he…? "How did you get away!?" he wails. "How did you get away!?" Bagman is still shouting something about ties and technicalities, surely Potter won, he says, he _must _have won, if he didn't win that means….; Madam Pomfrey is on about checking us up as we're the last out of the maze, it's a miracle any of us survived, she had half a mind to resign in protest of how this damned Tournament has been run, but then who would heal anyone?; McGonagall is congratulating both of us, me and Harry both, we'd done just brilliantly, she is so proud we're in her House—is she _crying? __Does _Professor McGonagall cry? and here comes a beaming Dumbledore and, "How did you get away!?" Moody is still screaming, and his wand is in his hand and pointed at Harry and everything goes slow because this isn't right, we just barely got away from the strangeness and danger, I can't take any more, I _can't!_

The curse Moody uses, whatever it is, makes Harry double over in pain, gripping his arm, and people are screaming, McGonagall grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me behind her, I don't see what happens, but everyone in the crowd are on their feet and screaming and shouting and pointing, Dumbledore is brandishing his wand, there's spellfire and chaos, Bagman seems to have caught on that something significant is happening, and then a bang that makes my ears ring.

When sound comes back, things are calmer. Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey kneel by Harry, whose arm is bleeding from a large gash, though he seems otherwise alright. Moody has vanished, along with the Cup. McGonagall has me by the shoulders and is saying something to me. "Miss Linese? Linese? Nita, can you hear me?"

I struggle to focus on her. "Yes, ma'am."

Her expression relaxes. There are definitely tears on her face, I notice. "You're alright? You're not hurt?"

"I'm fine," I say. Then I lean forward till my cheek rests on her shoulder and begin to sob. Her hands come up to rest on my back, stiff and light with shock. "Something happened," I gasp. "Something happened." And for a long time I stand there crying, until a querulous voice interrupts.

"Surely they can't intend to let them split the victory, Minerva!" Bagman again. Why this fixation on the tie between me and Harry? I lift my damp face from the Deputy Headmistress' shoulder and glare at the man, who had evidently missed my presence, as he stops dead when he sees me, eyes going wide.

"Do you mind explaining why you hate me so much?" I spit. All my disorganized, frayed off emotions slam together into anger, as though glad to have some outlet, some focus. "What the hell did I ever do to you?"

He goggles, adam's apple bobbing as his mouth opens and closes. His blond hair is in disarray, his robes stained with sweat.

McGonagall still has her arm around my shoulders, and it tightens now. "You have done nothing wrong, Nita," she declares. "It is Ludo's small-minded, self-centred, worthless view on life that has turned him against you. And why, Ludo? Do you wish to tell her, or shall I?"

He looks truly panicked now, eyes flitting back and forth, tongue slipping over dry lips. "Minerva, surely there's no need—"

"You say I should? Very well. Nita, I hate to be the bearer of bad news after what has clearly already been a stressful evening, but you have the misfortune of being this cretin's daughter."

All the air leaves my lungs in a rush. Daughter? Bagman's? Me? No, those things don't fit together like that. I'm Mum's daughter, I never had a father, he was just some bloke, Mum said he was named Luke, or Duke… or Ludo. And once that one small connection is made, others crowd my mind. We have the same exact colour hair, like sunshine or dandelions, only he keeps his gelled or magicked into its coif. His nervously asked questions about my parentage every chance he got, like after I was chosen as champion, when he asked if I was Muggle-born, and if my parents were proud of me, at the Yule Ball. His sotto voce comment about apples not falling far from their trees when he'd seen me and Viktor going up the marble stairs together the day he'd shown us all the maze. And who had I heard say that he used to get drunk at Muggle pubs after winning Quidditch games? No, too many things make sense. Too many things fit together. I suck a deep breath in. My scar twinges. "And you were worried I would find out and demand something of you." I realize it as I say the words aloud. "You were worried about—about child support payments, or publicly admitting an illegitimate child, or facing Mum again or something. Right?" And if he had broken the Statute of Secrecy all those years ago, it would explain why Mum hated the idea of me being a witch. It would be something else I had in common with _him_. For a split second, I hate that I am a witch, that this wonderful gift had to come from such a paltry source.

His jaw is tight, his eyes bright and hard. At least I didn't get his eyes. "I have nothing to give you anyway," he eventually snaps. "Debts, mostly. Harry winning the Tournament would have solved that for me, with the odds the goblins lay, but you had to go and ruin even that—"

"I don't _want_ anything of yours," I snarl, disgusted. "Everything I've ever done, I've done on my own! How could you ever make my life better? I'll be happy to never see you again! Just leave me alone! _Leave me alone!"_ I'm shouting, people can probably hear, and I'm crying again, but I don't care. This is the worst night of my life for a hundred thousand reasons, and Bagman is the least of them. Yelling at him doesn't even feel that good.

He is pale. His lips twitch, and something in him crumbles. "I'll have to go into hiding from here," he says. "I put everything on Harry, the goblins will never forgive a debt that size, a tie won't be the same…" A glint comes into his eye. "Though if they're letting you tie, you'd get half the gold, wouldn't you? Five hundred?"

Professor McGonagall steps between us. "Get away from her before I break your wand," she says savagely.

Wide-eyed and defeated, Bagman slopes off into the darkness, out of my life, hopefully, forever. I'd never liked him at all, but now the antipathy he had always shown me is perfectly mutual. His daughter… the thought is as slimy and repugnant as he is.

But before I have any time to process anything, Madam Pomfrey bustles over and declares it's high time Harry and I get settled in the Hospital Wing. Yes, that sounds good. Madam Pomfrey won't let anyone bother me in the Hospital Wing.

And for little while, that turns out to be true. Harry is hurt more severely than me and gets most of the Matron's attention, but she runs a number of tests on me as well until she's satisfied I'm healthy and whole. And physically, I am. I'm filthy and my clothes are torn and scorched and covered in dirt and grass stains, but I came through the last task of the Triwizard Tournament with no physical injury to speak of.

Of course that says nothing about emotional blows.

But then Bigby and Madam Malkin and Tom and Mary and Rachel are allowed in to see me, and they saw me crying on McGonagall and yelling at Bagman and they're concerned for me and want to know what happened. "Were you hurt?" Madam Malkin demands as soon as she claps eyes on me. "Poppy, was she hurt?" Madam Pomfrey tells her sister no, and fortunately they get so caught up that Madam Malkin forgets to talk to me at all. Tom, Mary and Rachel anxiously listen in, but Bigby comes over to me. His voice is the same low rumble it's been since I was a sopping wet, shivering twelve year old who needed a place to sleep and wouldn't for the world admit it. "You're alright?"

I want to tell Bigby everything, but that old familiar feeling of words gluing themselves to my throat chokes me again and I can't. I can't tell him the worst thing. But this is Bigby: Bigby who made sure I had a place to sleep, who fed me beans and toast and sausage when I had no other dinner, who showed me how to give a tattoo and made the Alley home for me. If not the worst thing, can't I tell him another thing? There have been so many tonight. So I force words up through the glue. They come out mumbled and ashamed, though why am I ashamed? I've done nothing wrong, after all. "Turns out Ludo Bagman is my dad."

I can't look at him, but I hear a quiet breath go in and out his nose. "Unfortunate."

The noise I make is too thick and snotty to be a laugh, but it feels good. "Yeah."

"I know I'm..." He clears his throat roughly and I peek up to see his brows are clenched, and his hands are buried even deeper in the pockets of his leather jacket than usual. "I'm no kind of dad. Never thought of being one. No idea how. But I reckon I could do a little better than him if you wanted." He glances at me, then down at his feet, and it amazes me to realize that he is being humble to me.

Tears fill my eyes all over again as I nod. "Yes. You're a brilliant dad. Thank you." I can't ever make the words mean as much as they should, so I just repeat them. "Thank you." He nods as well, and half smiles, and I see him surreptitiously wiping his own eyes as he shuffles over to Madam Malkin. I feel like my heart will crack from feeling so much.

I endure the concern of the rest of them for as long as Madam Pomfrey lets them stay, which is about twenty minutes, and then they reluctantly leave and I'm alone again. This is a mixed blessing, because even though the pressure of other peoples' concern is cloying and difficult, being left at the mercy of my own memories is horrible as well. But the next bout of chaos arrives before too long, in the form of Dumbledore, Minister Fudge, McGonagall, Snape, and several others. "Well!" the Headmaster says in a confusingly upbeat tone. "It seems the pair of you have had quite the adventure this evening!"

Harry and I glance at each other. We're in opposite beds, and the Headmaster and his entourage stand sort of off from the foot of them. "I'm not sure that's what I would call it, sir," Harry eventually says, holding up his arm, which still has a thick orange paste like marmalade that Madam Pomfrey put on to heal the slice Moody made.

"No, perhaps not," Dumbledore admits, still amiable. "Frankly, that's why we're here. Harry, Nita, would you be so kind as to tell us what happened?"

Harry and I glance at each other again, and I nod for him to speak first. He does, mercifully starting from us seeing the Cup and going through the Portkey taking us to the graveyard, the strange man holding whatever he was holding, the pain he had experienced, which he says felt like his scar specifically, and then he gets a bit vague about how we got back, and then everyone saw what Moody did at the front of the maze, cutting his arm and somehow vanishing with the Cup. Fudge mutters in Dumbledore's ear the whole time, seeming agitated. But then it's my turn, and I repeat the majority of what Harry said, adding in the green spellfire that nearly hit me twice in the graveyard, and that it was the Portkey that brought us back to the front of the maze. And I saw even less of Moody's strange outburst than Harry did, so I'm not much help there. But they're keenly interested in the man in the graveyard, and the green spells, as well they should be, and they make each of us repeat ourselves several times. Then Fudge pulls Dumbledore aside and whispers furiously to him, and the others disperse around the room. McGonagall comes to me and sits at the chair next to my bed. "Nita," she says very quietly. "There's something else, isn't there?"

I swallow, lick my lips. Nod.

"I'm not saying you must tell me, of course. But if you wish to, you may."

I try to breathe deeply, but I'm suddenly shaking, very hard. I cross my arms and grip my biceps tightly and that helps a bit, but it's still a thin, struggling whisper that says, "Viktor."

Her brow crimps. "Mr Krum?"

"He… something happened." I force myself onward. "To him, I think. Something… we met in the maze, we talked. I did a Patronus for the first time. It's a fox." Despite everything, I am still proud of this. Even though… "I was so excited to tell him. I used a memory of him, of when he said—he said..." I stop to breathe, pressing a hand over my eyes. "He didn't know what it was, a Patronus." Close now, terrifyingly so, close enough that the spectre of remembered pain makes me shake all the more. "He… something happened, he… went blank. His face did, and his body, sort of. And he did… he used the Cruciatus. On me. And Harry Stunned him. And that's why we were together at the Cup." Breathing. Breathing. The hand over my eyes can't hold the tears in. "We said 'love', at the second task. That's the memory I used. And then he…." Breathing. Deep, rattling breathing that pulls my burn. McGonagall is silent.

Eventually, I take my hand from my eyes and look at her. She has taken her glasses off and is wiping her own eyes with a hankie. "My dear girl," she whispers, and I startle. "My dear girl, I can't imagine..." She gathers herself. "I'm going to tell you something the Minister doesn't want shared."

"Okay," I say, baffled.

"The man teaching Defense all year has not, in truth, been Alastor Moody." I stare at her, wondering where in the world this could be going. "We searched his office before coming here and found great quantities of Polyjuice Potion. You are familiar with that potion's uses?" I nod. "And furthermore, locked in a section of his trunk, we found Moody himself, who says he has been kept prisoner there all year. He has told us that the man impersonating him is Bartimaeus Crouch Junior, a man we all believed died in Azkaban years ago. He was a fervent supporter of You Know Who. If he had some scheme involving Potter—and this is only inference, though I believe it makes sense based on what you described of his actions—he may have used the Imperius Curse on Mr Krum to try and remove you as a competitor in the maze. Using Moody's magical eye would have made that possible for him." I blink, something hot and tight at the bottom of my chest unknotting. I don't know how much sense that makes—it feels pretty reachy—but I'm desperate for something that makes this make sense, and moreover, something that will exonerate Viktor.

"I see," I say softly.

"Again, that's not certain," she stresses. "But knowing what I do about Crouch, and what I've seen of you and Mr Krum, I don't believe… That is to say, I think my theory is the likelier option than him… betraying you in such a way."

"Yes," I agree, something like hope clawing at all the emotional baffles and barriers that years and years of abuse and bullying have necessitated. Viktor had gotten through practically all of them, but then I'd slammed him back out after… after.

A bout of silence. Madam Pomfrey is back to looking at Harry's arm, frowning. Fudge and Dumbledore still stand apart, Dumbledore looking calm and unruffled while the Minister looks still more frazzled than when he got here. McGonagall is looking at me soberly. A thought strikes me. "Can you… do me a favour?" I ask.

"Certainly."

"Edgar, my ferret… I think Madam Pomfrey will make us, me and Harry that is, stay here tonight, so could you please bring him food? He likes chicken, if there is any. And would you tell him I'm alright? He should understand. I think."

She smiles and shakes her head. "I'll do that now."

"Thanks," I sigh. She leaves, and noone else bothers me. Fudge storms out, Snape follows, Dumbledore talks to Harry for a minute but then Madam Pomfrey forces him out too, and the infirmary is left in blessed quiet. Madam Pomfrey brings over a curtain for around the bed along with a basin of water, soap and a washtowel, and a pair of hospital pyjamas. I undress and clean up slowly, and when I'm done, she brings a bowl of hot lentil soup. Harry is asleep in the opposite bed by then, and I sit up alone in the dark, hugging my knees, watching the stars glide slowly by out the narrow windows.

Some time around midnight, Viktor arrives. His wand is lit and his steps are soft, and when I look over at him in the doorway he stops dead. "Nheeta," he whispers.

The trembling is back, and I grip my arms again. "What happened?" I ask, voice tight.

"It vosn't me," he says desperately, miserably. "I mean, it vos, but—it vos like my mind vos, vos, kidnapped? Hostaged?"

"Bulgarian is fine," I say, all of my instincts at war with the hope that's rising again.

He rushes into his native language gratefully, words tripping over each other in his speed. "It was like there was something else in my mind, telling me what to do. I didn't want to, but I couldn't resist, I wasn't in charge of my own body anymore. I tried and tried to fight it—" Yes, his wand had been shaking, was that what that had meant? "—but it was _in my head_, I couldn't get it out, it just kept telling me 'hurt her, hurt her' and—" His voice breaks and the starlight from the windows makes silver of his tears. "And I'm so sorry, Nita, I'm so sorry, I can't imagine how you'll ever forgive me, I know I don't deserve it. But I'm sorry… I'm sorry…."

I realize I'm crying too, and swipe at my cheeks. "Has anyone explained to you about Moody?" I ask. He shakes his head. No, of course they wouldn't. It's par for the course, exactly the way the rest of the Tournament has been run. Why change tack now? "Come sit down," I say, pointing to the chair by my bed where McGonagall had sat earlier. He hurries over and sits, expression battling between hope and fear. Just exactly what I'm feeling too. I give him the short version of what McGonagall told me, and he listens rapt, eyes burning. I address myself to his hands, mostly, sparing only the odd glance at his face. It's difficult to look at him properly. Even though I'm becoming convinced that McGonagall's theory is right, because there's enough circumstantial evidence to support it, and I know that Viktor would never do anything like cheating, the memory of pain and betrayal is strong, and all the lessons of my life tell me that the people who say they love me—who are _supposed_ to love me—will hurt me. Even if only by accident. I can't unlearn that in the course of one night, no matter how much I want to.

"I've never seen the Imperius done before," he says. "Only read, and heard stories of when Grindelwald was in power..." He wets his lips nervously. "You said it's not certain that's what happened. That since Moody—or Crouch, as you say—escaped, there's no way to be sure. If you can't accept that explanation, I… I understand. They're the Unforgivable Curses because… well." Tears are tracking down his face again, dripping onto his chest, but his voice is even. He's ready for rejection if that's what I have for him.

I take my time, speaking each word carefully. "The Cruciatus is an Unforgivable, and for good reason. I've never been in so much pain before. And the fact that it was you, at least physically…" I swallow with difficulty. "I can't tell you how that felt. But… even if there's no solid proof, with Crouch gone... the Imperius makes the most sense. And… the Imperius is an Unforgivable too." A deep, steadying breath. "So maybe we're both victims." I make myself look at him, and see the naked hope and love on his face, and feel my heart reach out with the desire to hold and be held again. But still, the dark shadow of pain… "I will need time to trust you again. Maybe a lot of it. But I want to. I want to be with you, and love you, and trust you, and have a life together..." And dammit, I'm crying again.

But he takes my hand in both of his, squeezing so hard I almost fear for my fingers, and presses my knuckles to his forehead. "Nita," he breathes, shoulders shaking. "My god, Nita, thank you. I can't believe… I love you… I love you, I'm so sorry…"

"I know," I whisper. "It'll be okay. I love you too. It'll be okay."

**—The End—**

**A/N**

**YOU GUYS, I WAS LITERALLY GOING TO KILL HER! THIS IS HOW THE ****ORIGINAL**** DRAFT ENDED: **

He stops next to a particularly imposing gravestone merely two meters from us, and the three of us stare at each other for a second.  
Then, without warning, Harry crumples to the ground next to me, moaning and clutching his head, evidently in great pain. Distracted, I barely hear a high, cruel voice say, "Kill the girl."  
Another voice screams, "_Avada Kedavra!_"  
There is a flash of green light.  
I am falling.

**I was seriously going to do that to my beautiful girl! ****She wasn't going to find out about Bagman being her dad, or reconcile with Viktor, or ever go to the Euro-Glyph School…. ****I ha****ve**** half ****of**** a super sad epilogue written and everything! When I started this, ****I set out to emphasize the tragedy of the situation, and really dissect how, in canon, we didn't have a sense of what the end of Cedric's life was interrupting, aside from his relationship with Cho. I wanted to show what it would ****mean**** for a life to be cut off at the very ****middle, with nothing resolved. ****But seeing how much everyone loved Nita as they read more of her story had me feeling ****guiltier**** and ****guiltier****, and t****his is the review that changed my mind ****once and for all****: **_"Excellent chapter! ...I sincerely hope that you are not building up Nita just to kill her in the graveyard. I like the character you've created and hope to see that somehow she and Harry will pull through."_ **It was the first one to mention the possibility of her dying outright, and when ****I read ****i****t ****I**** felt SO BAD that I decided right then and there to change the ending. ****So ****here we are. As happy an ever after as Nita Linese could have gotten, just as delicate and complicated as the rest of her life has been. (And if you don't think I know _exactly_ how the rest of their lives together go, you've got another thing coming.)  
**

**Thank you to every single person who has read along with Nita on her journey, especially everyone who has left such kind and encouraging reviews (seriously, I have never posted a story to such completely positive response!). I'm happy that you unknowingly convinced me to change the outcome of the graveyard. Her happy ending is as much for you as her. **

**Happy New Year to everyone! I hope 2020 brings you health and happiness!**

**All characters (except for mine) are owned by JK Rowling, Warner Bros, etc. Oh, and I keep forgetting to say that I stole Bigby's name from the "Fables" series by Bill Willingham. He's not meant to be the same character, though I do love that Bigby, I just thought his name was cool.  
**

**E.I. signing out **

**[Edited July 2020 (ya'll, I'm so sorry for jinxing it with that New Years wish up above) mainly to smooth out some details and to add the conversation of Nita telling Bigby about her parentage, all in anticipation of the ~SEQUEL!~ :3 Look out for that -maybe- in October?] **


	14. sad version epilogue

**[I think literally only 2 people said they were interested in the sad-ending epilogue, but that's enough for me! So: here is the incomplete, Very Very Sad epilogue that I might have finished if I hadn't changed the ending. It's not polished at all and the last part is just a list of scenes I had planned to write. Anyway, I hope it's at least interesting! And thank you again for reading!] **

_Epilogue – History_

[during the priori incantatum scene, fill it in later] The smokey figure of Nita stood complete, apart from Voldemort's wand now. "Harry, could you… I don't know who would want it, but would you bring my body back? I'd like to be buried properly."

"I will," he promised.

She smiled approvingly and jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Give him hell for me." She turned aside, but then paused. "And Harry? It wasn't your fault."

Intense relief filled him, but already…. [the duel goes on as per canon, don't want to lift too much straight out of the book]

-o-

Sudden cheering and shouting alerted Viktor that someone had arrived back at the front of the maze, and he jerked to his feet, startling the nurse back from her ministrations to his concussion. If people were cheering at this volume, it had to mean someone had won. All his years of Quidditch had taught him that. And it would be Nita, of course it would be. Delacour had left the task very early, and Potter was merely 14, despite what people said about him defeating a Dark Lord.

The front of the maze was lit up with four blazing spot-lights, and in the centre of the little open area in front of the entrance to it, two figures laid sprawled a small distance apart, with the shining Cup on its side nearby. Two figures? he wondered as he pelted closer, ignoring the twinge in his knee that came from his mad-dash escape from the enormous fire-scorpion in the maze. One of the figures was Potter—they had perhaps tied?—and he was getting to his hands and knees, looking around with intense fear, confusion and hope. And then Potter's eyes fell on the second figure, the one bundled on her side, the one with blonde hair who hadn't moved yet, unconscious.

Nita.

Viktor did not follow any particular religion, but he prayed in that moment that she would let him explain, and understand that what he had done had not happened by his own will. Something else had been controlling him, directing his willpower, forcing him to commit this crime against his heart.

Viktor fell to his knees at Nita's side, pulling her arm, shaking her a little to wake her up, but there was something strange about her body…. She was too limp for unconsciousness, her skin was chilly and waxy and when she rolled on her back he saw her eyes were open and staring blindly. She did not breathe. Her pulse did not beat under her skin.

The knowledge was like slow poison in his blood.

"No," he said, his throat rough like sandpaper. The crowded stands had gone quiet, no longer cheering as they became aware as well.

_Dead._

A short, bitter word that beat on him harder than anything his body had ever undergone in training. He stared down at her. Her blonde hair like a dandelion. Her hazel green eyes that used to dance when she was happy. Her hands, bony and thin, but strong when they held onto him. Under her shirt, the burn she hid, hated, and feared. He knew her so little, hardly a piece of what he wanted, what he thought he would have with her until scant seconds ago. Until this impossible thing happened.

"No…" he repeated, he was not sure to whom. "I was not myself… it was something… I never… I love her… I did not want… She was too… She can't… Shit… Shit… Shit…" He squatted next to her body, face in his hand, shoulders shaking. No one dared come close.

-o-

Potter safe. Crouch apprehended. Moody rescued. Her duties fulfilled.

Minerva strode down the corridor towards the Trophy Room, her heart pumping fury and grief. Childless herself, she sometimes chose… not favorites exactly, but _particular_ students she paid a little more attention to than others. Sirius Black had been one in his day. Harry Potter another. Was it the tragedy of these people she responded to? Was it that she admired their strength? Or was it that something in her liked being unable to help them?

She entered the Trophy Room and found him as she had expected. Ludo Bagman held a large canvas sack in one hand, hastily stuffing golden plaques and awards into it with the other. He was muttering to himself, and from that she caught the gist. The goblins wouldn't accept Nita's death as Potter's victory.

It had been a well-known secret that Bagman was betting on the Tournament, and when he'd disappeared she knew he'd be after some way of paying the goblins he'd lost to.

She cleared her throat loudly and Bagman leapt nearly a foot in the air, simultaneously trying to whirl around to see who had shocked him. In his vibrant silk robes, he resembled a portly, unskillful ballerina. "M-minerva!" His voice broke in the middle, which he tried to cover with a shrill nervous laugh. "You startled me! What, what are you, ah, can I help you?" He held the sack behind his back, like a child caught stealing sweets trying to appear innocent.

His lack of shame made her blood boil. "Put them back immediately, Ludo," she said icily.

His wide-eyed innocence faltered. "Put…?"

"Obey before I knock you out and do it myself."

Shock overwhelmed his last denial and he wordlessly complied, replacing the trophies he'd stolen. Their conversation at the Yule Ball echoed in her head, when she'd first confronted him about his paternity and made the firm suggestion that he admit the relation he had to Nita. He had scoffed at the time, saying "The girl is nothing but a Muggle-born bristle-chaser, just look at how she's hanging on Krum. I have nothing but respect for you, but kindly keep your absurd speculation to yourself in the future."

She watched him shuffle between pedestals and plinths, fishing out each award, and abruptly fell to her rage.

"That girl deserved so much better than you." Her voice was steel and flint.

"Well what do you want me to do now?" he tore out, whirling on her. "Fix it up with the mother and try again? Not likely. I shacked up with her for two nights after we won the British Isles Championship in nineteen-seventy-six and never saw her again! How was I supposed to know there even was a… a you know…"

"A daughter?" Minerva asked coldly. "A little girl raised by a mother who couldn't remember your name but hated you? A mother so opposed to the idea of magic that she threw her eleven year old child out of the house when she went to Hogwarts?" Shame clawed through her. She'd heard the mother say that very thing, but had assumed she and Nita worked out an arrangement when the girl showed up at Hogwarts after all. Talking with Madam Malkin and Mr Bigby and Tom—who were even now grieving somewhere in the castle—and learning that Nita had instead been living in the Alley, eating handouts and sleeping on the floor for nearly seven years, had made her nearly too ashamed to look her in the eye. "A girl so fierce and determined and _strong_ that she never once asked for help from anyone? Is _that _who you mean?"

Bagman was staring at her, confounded by the strength of her emotion and clearly at a loss for anything to say. His careful hairdo was coming loose from its moorings of gel and starting to stick up like a sunrise. His hair was the same golden colour as Nita's, which was one of the first things that made her suspect the truth, but she had never seen it out of its carefully coiffed and controlled shape. It seemed he also shared her hair's propensity to stick out in every conceivable direction. This detail made her throat ache.

"Get out of here, Ludo," she said quietly.

"Where am I meant to go?" he asked, spreading his hands and indicating the empty sack he still held. "The goblins will have my hide if I don't pay them off."

"You seem to think that your poor decisions are somehow my problem."

Chastised, he went, and when the sound of his slow footsteps had faded from her hearing, she finally let herself sink onto the floor and cry for this girl who deserved so much better than her life had given her.

-o-

Mary was dozing when the doorbell rang. She cursed and grumbled getting up, thinking it was probably Mr Ronden come to argue with her about her leaky tub that was ruining his ceiling. She was still a little drunk from the previous night and had been looking forward to a day of just her and a bottle of wine, to ward off a hangover, since it was her day off, after all.

She staggered down the short hallway, leaning on walls when she had to and trying to force her eyes to focus. The doorknob felt weird and ghostly in her hand as she pulled the door open. But the person on the other side of the door wasn't Mr Ronden. It was a tall woman in long, dark green clothes and a pointy hat like storybook witches and rectangle glasses. And she recognized her. It took a moment, but she did.

"You're the professor," she mumbled. "The one who took Nita."

"Mz Linese," the professor said. "May I come in?"

Mary swayed for a moment, then turned from the doorway and stumbled back to the sitting room and her sofa and her bottle. She heard the professor follow her inside and close the door. Mary was not an imaginative person, but it was obvious that the professor was here about Nita again. Why else would she come?

"So what'd she do?" Mary asked, taking her place on the sofa and reaching for a cig. "She must've done something. No one ever had good news about Nita."

The professor clasped her hands in front of her and swallowed. "Mz Linese, it is my duty to inform you that your daughter Nita Linese was killed two days ago on the twenty-fourth of June. We have taken the liberty of making funeral arrangements. Here are the details." She pulled a slip of stiff paper out from her sleeve and held it out to Mary, but Mary felt frozen.

"Killed?" she repeated.

"She was participating in a, a tournament at the school and was caught in larger conflict involving another student." It sounded like the professor had rocks in her throat, she spoke so roughly. "It was quick. She wouldn't have felt anything." She was still holding the paper out, but Mary didn't want it.

"Was she… was she afraid?"

The professor ducked her head and took a long time to answer. "I don't know. But I never knew her to be afraid of anything, so I like to think not." For a moment neither woman spoke. "Please take the paper."

"I don't deserve it."

"No, but you're her mother."

"I was a bad mum though," Mary said desperately. After so many years of guilt, she wanted someone to understand, even this strange woman who once took her daughter. She wanted to confess. "I never wanted her, I only kept her because I hoped it would bring her father back, and I hurt her, her chest, did you ever see? it was an accident but I hurt her so baldy…" Her throat choked off and large goopy tears started pouring down her face.

The professor looked down on her with pity and revulsion. "If it helps, I believe she was happy these last seven years at school. She worked hard and accomplished much and made friends and had such a bright… _future_." Her voice broke and her hands became trembling fists as her face twisted, showing her fight for control. When she finally achieved it, she placed the slip of paper she still held (it was now slightly crumpled) on the side table and drew a deep breath. "You should be there. I'll show myself out."

Mary didn't move as the professor hurried down the short passageway and let herself into the corridor outside. Then, shaking, she reached for the paper.

-o-

The graveyard was very small, and the day was overcast and sour. Kay passed through the iron gate, fearful of being in the wrong place even though she had followed McGonagall's instructions. It was her first time Apparating such a long distance, and she was proud of herself for succeeding, but then ashamed to feel anything but somber grief on this day.

She wended her way through the snaggletooth tombstones, making for the little knot of people she saw towards the back wall of the cemetery. She recognized about half of them. Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, and Professor Babbling stood in a cluster speaking quietly among themselves. McGonagall nodded to Kay as she came close. She also knew Madam Malkin from Diagon Alley, and Tom from the Leaky Cauldron. Viktor Krum stood by himself close to the open grave, cradling Nita's pet ferret, Edward was it? Edwin? She didn't like to look at him ('_Anymore,_' the guilty part of her whispered). His grief for Nita at the end of the third task had been so visceral that she felt nearly sick from the empathic echoes of it. The way he'd just folded into himself like that… Truth be told, Kay had been just as mystified as the rest of the student body by the relationship between Nita and the Bulgarian Quidditch star, but there was no question now that he cared for her deeply.

Madam Malkin stood with Madam Pomfrey and a stout bald man who was completely covered in tattoos. He ignored the talk going on around him, staring at the grave in the same way as Viktor. As though it weren't quite real and soon he'd wake up. Two women in their mid-twenties stood together, speaking quietly, leaning their heads against each others' for comfort. There were two others: a very fat man with a russet beard with a soft black velvet cap that exaggerated his round red cheeks. With him was another young woman, a little plump with dark hair and glasses that suited her face. They stood slightly apart, as though they didn't know any of the others.

The crowd of them was eclectic, Kay thought. None of them knew all of the rest, it seemed. She wondered if that meant they all only knew pieces of Nita. She knew that was certainly true of herself.

As the minutes passed, one other person arrived, another woman. Short and crumpled-looking, she huddled in her coat as though trying to be as small as possible. Her hair was dark brown and whispy and her face had split veins like roads on a map and she smelled like wine, but something about her made Kay sure that this was Nita's mother. Pity filled her, for both of them, but as she watched, the short burly man stirred himself and shuffled over to Nita's mum and mumbled something to her. To Kay, several meters distant, it sounded like, "Knew your little girl, ma'am." There was more after that, but the wind gusted in the wrong direction and took the words away. Whatever they were, they made Nita's mum let out an ugly, keening sob, and she buried her face in her hands and wept unashamedly. The man, whoever he was, stood with his hands in his pockets for a moment, then turned and went back to Madam Malkin. Kay wasn't sure what she'd seen between them, but it made her throat ache and she looked away.

—The rest of the funeral: Sirius is there in his dog form, though of course Kay doesn't recognize him; Edgar jumps out of Viktor's arms and dies on the casket as they're burying her; the headstone reads,

Nita Linese  
June 10th 1977-June 24th 1995  
~beloved and grieved~

Kay says some words: "I always really admired you, Nita. No matter how mean any of… us… were to you, you never cared, and you were so strong… I wish we had been friends… I know it's worthless to stand here and say this now, because if none of this had happened, I would have gone right on admiring and wishing, but I guess I just want to say 'I'm sorry'. And I hope you can forgive us."

—Directly after the funeral, Bigby tattoos himself with her name, opposite his Marigold shoulder. _Her name waved on a proudly flapping banner, a ferret curled around the pole, a dandelion sprouting next to it._

—Her Yule Ball dress lives in Madam Malkin's display window. Maybe three years afterwards, some pureblood woman (maybe Mrs Greengrass, doesn't really matter) tries to buy it for her daughter's debut, and Madam Malkin refuses. It's from the fancy lady's point of view, so Madam Malkin's grief is only clear to readers.

—If I really want to twist the knife, I can do a scene of Budge being sad several years down the line. Like he bites people now rather than cuddling, etc. My poor muffin.

—Bigby has a picture of his wedding on his corkboard in his shop, and a customer notices it while he's waiting for Bigby to finish a tattoo design.  
Customer: "Is this a picture of your wedding?"  
Bigby: "Yes."  
"Who's the girl?"  
"My daughter."  
"Pretty. How old is she now?"  
"She would have been twenty-eight in June."

**A/N**

**Aaaand that would have been that. I was only 50/50 on finishing and posting this even when I was still planning on killing her because after a while it started feeling like what I called 'grief porn'. So fortunately, this isn't, uh, 'canon' anymore, and we don't have to worry about it :) **

**In fact, all of a sudden I could do a sequel if I wanted! I don't have any ideas for one, and moving away from Hogwarts and the Triwizard Tournament structure would mean coming up with a wholly original plot idea, but it's not out of the realm of possibility! I do have a pretty solid idea of how her and Viktor's lives go from here on out, so it would be a matter of turning some part of that into a self-contained thing. Anyway. **

**Thank you again to everyone who read and reviewed, and I hope the 2 of you who were interested in this epilogue found it… I don't know if 'enjoyable' is the right word here, but you know what I mean. :P **

**E.I. signing out**


	15. SEQUEL TIME!

**The day has come! I'm posting the sequel to _Champion_! It's called _To Know Most Truly_ and the prologue is already up! I thought if you followed _Champion_ you might be interested in the new installment, so I'm posting this to let all eigh— *Does a massive doubletake* —ALL EIGHTY-THREE FOLLOWERS know. (What the actual heck, everyone, thank you!) :D**

**_To Know Most Truly_ is a different sort of story, especially in the timeframe: we're covering almost two and a half years instead of _Champion_'s ten months (not counting the prologues) in around the same number of chapters, so that gives it a different feel.**

**The other main difference is, we're out of Hogwarts! The canon plot is only vaguely related to Nita's life, and is also going to change pretty significantly anyway, so be ready for that!**

**But here are some things you can look forward to:**  
**-Nita and Viktor being wonderful, beautiful (sometimes slightly fraught and often awkward) lovers. Come on, like I would do anything different with my favorite characters.**  
**-Loads and loads more language stuff! Nita's in the Euro-Glyph School now, so things are getting interesting there! (Also, the ethics of translation! Yay?)**  
**-Barty Crouch Jr survived and escaped, remember, so that's going to throw a wrench in the works. Expect some trouble from the Ministry!**  
**-Political intrigue, moonlit romance, daring escapes, amazing adventures, a dragon or two… Oh yes, Miss Linese won't know what hit her.**

**ABSOLUTE FULL DISCLOSURE THOUGH: Unlike when I posted _Champion_, I don't have the sequel fully written yet. There are 15 chapters in the outline and I am currently writing Chapter Ten. I expect I will be able to write at a pace that will let me maintain weekly posts, but I have just gone back to school, so if I can't, I'll take the frequency down to every other week. This is not going to be another _Three Black Birds_ situation where I just bit off way more than I could chew. I am determined to see this thing to the end.**

**Whew! All that said, I am EXTREMELY excited for this new part of Nita's story, and I hope you are too! See you there!**

**E.I. signing out**


End file.
